Ladies and gentlemen, I no longer live in Wembers.
Well, it’s not official. I haven’t even notified the bank I’ve changed addresses yet, let alone actually sold the flat. However, Piglet and I are currently residing with my mother and are now the occupants of a room I previously shared with my brother in 1985. It’s great being 35.
The journey here was relatively uneventful, except for a few awkward moments conversing with someone I met once at a job interview who sat on the table next to us at Reading Services while I was trying to feed Piglet an appetising combination of Heinz baby biscuits and a jar of “cheesy fish pie,” which was the only offering for babies (for some reason the only food available at the services seems to be chips, and I am convinced that once Piglet is introduced to chips, it will be the beginning of a long descent into morbid obesity that will end with him being lifted out of a hole in the side of the house by crane, while a finger-wagging Jeremy Kyle stands alongside narrating a TV documentary warning of the dangers of fast food).
Speaking of food, Mother and I are probably now barred from one of the local cafes after Piglet kicked a table over whilst remonstrating with his grandmother about not being allowed to crawl around on the floor of said cafe and pull himself up on all the other diners’ tables and steal their food (which is undoubtedly what he would have been doing, had he been allowed to crawl around at will). It would be an understatement to say that Piglet does not like being told that he cannot crawl around, especially in restaurants, pubs and train stations. However, at least Granny is in possession of a highchair, so I no longer have to try to convince him to remain in his Bumbo seat for the duration of a meal, instead of climbing out, smearing food on every available surface, taking all the books off the shelf, pouring water over them, and then trying to push large pieces of furniture around the room as though they were toy cars.
I am pretty convinced that he is lying next to me now, having sweet dreams about which bits of Granny’s house he is going to destroy first. That is, if the house doesn’t get him first. There is quite a lot more babyproofing that needs to be done in a house than in a flat. We should probably just line the whole place with crash mats.