This morning at Victoria tube station there seemed to be a bottleneck forming at the top of the escalator. This is usually due to some penis who either has a massive suitcase with no understanding of how to steer it, or an inability to successfully step onto a moving staircase without counting in their head.
One, two, (step forward)
But not this morning. No, this morning it was a woman with a pushchair.
I won’t lie, my initial thoughts were…
“Get the fuck out of the way you twat! We’re all trying to get to work! I mean who the fuck brings a child onto the underground at rush hour you massive wanker!?”
…but I soon realised that might be a little insensitive, so I didn’t say anything.
This poor struggling mother clearly had to travel at rush hour, otherwise why would she? And it couldn’t have been easy pushing a small child around; navigating the escalators and trains with hoards of busy and ‘incredibly tolerant’ commuters rushing past her like a torrid river around a stupid fat rock.
She finally managed to count to three and merged with the moving staircase; shuffling to the right (and quite rightly so), to allow other commuters to walk past her on the left. As I approached her I could see she was hunched over uncomfortably; desperately holding the pushchair and two massive bags in position as the escalator took us deeper into the bowels of London.
I felt for her, I really did. Poor cow.
I suddenly felt a wave of guilt come over me as I got closer to her. Who was I to judge her for holding us all up? Who the fuck was I to get impatient because she had a pushchair with a small child in it?
Hang on…hold the fucking phone…
As I got level with her I noticed the ‘small child’ was in fact a boy of at least four years old! He was certainly too old and too tall to be pushed around by his mother. I mean this literally of course; a lot of men are mentally pushed around by their mothers all their lives, or until the cyanide takes effect.
What the fuck is she doing pushing him around? Lazy little shit. I did wonder for a second if he was disabled, but he was using his perfectly healthy legs to turn around and talk to mummy; presumably to feed her a lump of sugar or whatever it is you give to a good horse.
Who’s a good horse? Who’s a good horse?
It pisses me off that this little prick was being shuttled around when he had two perfectly good legs, just like the little two year old girl STOOD on the escalator with her dad a few feet in front.
It makes me so angry that some parents pander to their children a little too much at times. We spend the first year or so encouraging them to walk, so let the fuckers walk.
In India, as soon as children have competent motor skills they start making trainers, presumably for English kids who don’t walk in them.