Like many big cities, London has its good and bad bits. One of the nicest of the nicest bits for me has to be Hampstead and the Heath. Lots of awfully posh, well dressed females combine with interesting architecture and more than a modest sprinkling of knotty and misshapen, medieval looking trees.
The posh tossers are relatively easy to ignore, except for their loud voices, their over zealous conversations about litigation and nannies and their annoying way of saying ya instead of yes.
Their nannies on the other hand, aren’t so easy to ignore. They are mostly young aggressive (executive level) baby managers who shove their way on and off buses and into cafe’s with blind arrogance and a superiority that is hard to fathom.
Seated in a cafe on the edges of the Hampstead Heath, I watched a parade of them pushing their charges around the park with firm determination. There was no strolling here. No ambling through life to the soothing tone of a Mozart whatever. These children and these nannies were on a tight, tight schedule and nothing was going to divert them.
Next to my table was a rather cute 3 year old with nanny who was trying to teach her to say arachnophobia.
“Just try it – arach-no-phobia, arachnophobia. Go on, give it a go, your parents will be VERY impressed . . .”
One day the kid will say arachnophobia with the best of them.
“. . .ya, arachnophobia, I learnt that from nanny when I was three. Ya, ya, it’s a cool word. Ya, of course I know what it means. . .”
What I also thought at that arachnophobia moment was the why of all this posh feminine loudness. I decided it’s a throwback to their childhood. They talk loudly because they’re not really sure anyone is there listening. How could they be? Life has always been a bit of a blur for them. From the day they were born the little darlings were hurrying and scurrying around trying to maintain a daily schedule. And then at every quiet moment, their dear old nanny would try and force feed them with an exciting a new word. Something fine and elevating and useful for a 3 year old, like arachnophobia.
Ya, it’s a problem . . .
