Cafe Rage

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a gentrifying neighbourhood, with an increasing number of cafes out-competing the greasy spoons despite charging £2.50 for a cup of tea, will very soon attract an increasing number of baby buggies. Now my friends with kids know that I am ambivalent at the best of times when it comes to procreation. I love their kids as long as I don't have to manage them. When they are old enough to have a proper conversation I will take them on long walks in the mountains but until then I have to confess that I just don't find them interesting. And the sky has not fallen in and as far as I can tell my womb has not shrivelled up.

So it should come as no surprise then that when I'm having lunch with a friend in a new cafe on the towpath, and the waitress comes up and asks if we can move, even though we've started eating, because a woman wants to park her buggy next to her table, and it is the equivalent of an SUV for babies and therefore requires our space as well, I'm not going to be impressed. Could the buggy not be folded up and put in the corner? Could she not move to another table (of which there were plenty on the other side of the cafe)? No ... apparently the only solution was our removal.

While my lunch companion, who is younger and clearly less self-righteous than me, offered to move, I have to confess I heard the taut strings of patience snapping inside. It is for just such situations that I have perfected a look that could freeze Santa at 20 paces. As someone who has always had problems coming up with witty retorts at the right moment (usually it's 3am the morning after it's needed), the beauty of the ice stare is that you don't  need to say anything. Needless to say, the hint seemed to have been taken, the baby with its buggy was moved to another part of the cafe out of everyone's way, and even more sensibly, eventually removed from the buggy so it could sit quietly in its mum's lap and cause no problems for anyone. Sorted. 

Explaining Mr Darcy

It is a truth universally acknowledged that once a year, no matter how many times I've seen it, I will sit through the entire 6 hours of the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice, and wonder, yet again, will Lizzie and Mr Darcy get together at the end. I will go through the agonies of his refusal, her critique, his growing affection, her rebuttal, his acts of redemption, her growing affection, and the final declarative  snog.

What is it about Mr Darcy? Is it the fact that he fulfills a female fantasy of having our bad boy but only under our own terms? Is it because he's loaded and able to supply Elizabeth with the 18th century equivalent of a Bergdorf account and Jimmy Choo shoes? I'm defaulting to sexual selection and strictly biologically induced behaviour and therefore it's not my fault. As psychology studies among university students repeatedly show ... women prefer wealthier men, or at least men 'with prospects', and men prefer attractive women with child bearing hips. Makes perfect sense. Women have to invest in child rearing so we need men who can invest in us, just like a fish needs a bicycle.

So we shouldn't feel guilty about making him pay for dinner. It's just testing his capacity to pay the rest of his life for fish and bicycles. And we shouldn't feel guilty that thousands of us objectify poor Colin Firth, as he dives into a weedy pond to emerge the other side a dripping sex god.