Roll out the barrel...

Sarah Jessica-Parker

There are some things in life that I struggle with. And by that, I don’t mean struggle in the way my Gran struggles to open a tin of beans, or in the manner I approach mental arithmetic. 

By ‘struggle’ I mean, I don’t really agree with something and think it’s utterly mad, but am far too British and polite to say that, so I just ‘struggle’ with it.

For example I struggle with the mum of a two year old I saw at the chip shop at 9pm who was picking up tea for the little one after realising she’d ‘forgotten to feed him’ cause she’d been out for lunch and was full up. Or, with anyone who thinks parking in a disabled space is acceptable, just because they’re too lazy to walk an extra ten yards to Tesco. 

At risk of causing offence to those who have chosen this path, I’m afraid I have to say one of my greatest struggles is double barreled surnames?

As far as I’d always understood it, a double barreled surname was the mark of an aristocratic background, a symbol of wealth and prosperity, and possibly some relation to her Majesty (hello Maam if you’re reading this, love your work.)

However, in the doctor’s waiting room the other day, I heard the name Poppy Milligan-Taylor being called out (names have been altered slightly for the purposes of this reenactment). I pass no judgement, and happen to very much like the name Poppy, but from her mother’s conversation with the stranger on her right about the (and I paraphrase) “nasty Government folks making me pay a Bedroom tax”, I drew my own conclusions about her aristocratic background.

So why does poor Poppy have far more to learn when she starts to write her own name?

I have three theories as to where this phenomenon may have been born:

Feminism. 

Firstly I must thank Miss Pankhurst for chaining herself to a railing to ensure us women folk have the right to vote, educate ourselves, work alongside the men folk and of course for bringing the Spice Girls into our lives (Girl Power). But now we have all those things...and more. Women are literally ruling the world. 

You don’t genuinely believe Barack is still in the Whitehouse based on his devilishly handsome looks and his ability to land a jump shot from the base line do you? (apologies to anyone who knows anything about basketball, that may have been complete drivel.) 

Of course he isn’t! It’s all down to Michelle, her beautifully firm biceps, and her appearances on Oprah every other week.

And women are running the business world too, Debrah Meaden, Hillary Devey, Karen Brady, are all poweful women who make millions and have a great deal of influence. 

So we’ve established it’s no longer a man’s world. We no longer need to chain ourselves to the railings, so why on earth do we need to forget the historical sanctity of marriage, the joining of two people, destined to make a family unit? Why join together both surnames, to create some sort of statement? 

Where would The Simpsons be if Marge had decided to keep her maiden name? What would National Lampoon be without the Grizwalds..not to mention the Osmonds, Nolans, Beckhams, Jacksons..need I go on?

Some women don’t take their husband’s name at all. I can understand it if their husband-to-be is a notorious criminal, or maybe the new name would make you sound like a character out of the Mr Men books. But I know a lady called Tracey, who chose to marry a man with the surname Tacey. And henceforth she will be ever known as Tracey Tacey. What a woman! If she can do it, we all can. Germaine ‘soddin’ Greer can do one if you ask me!

Famous folks. 

Or there’s our obsession with those wonderful people in that mystical world of fame that make us go weak at the knees, cause us to change our wardrobe at the drop of a hat (whether it suits us or not) and lead us to cut our hair into the shape of a mushroom all because we call it the ‘Rachel look’. 

Yes, I think possibly the reason our Poppy may have established her extended surname that won’t fit on a passport form or voting slip, is because Sarah Jessica-Parker or Sophie Ellis-Bextor prance around with them. Don’t even get me started on the Jolie-Pitt clan..any woman not willing to give her children Brad Pitt’s name isn’t worth the paper you write her latest review on!

Victoria Beckham is our visionary here (a phrase you will never EVER hear me say again). I hope that she took David’s name because she loves him, she was marrying him, and that’s what you do (and possibly cause you can crack nuts on his butt cheeks, but that’s by-the-by). 

But the cynic in me says there was some huge discussion about said decision with publicists, management and hopefully each other at some point. I would say the foresight was as follows - he’s going to be more famous, his career has far more potential for longevity..the whole bottom thing...and you didn’t really need your maiden name anyway, you’re Posh Spice. Foresight or fairy tale? I want to believe in fairies, I really do.

Finally this is the less fun version, it’s the big ‘D’. Divorce. 

Now this is a tricky one. As a mother you may end up with a different surname to your children if you revert back to your maiden name (cause he was just that bad), or when you remarry. 

And I understand these things are rarely completely amicable - we can’t all be Fergie and Prince Andrew (thank goodness!). So having any reminder of your ex, must always be difficult, but here’s my thought. Your child is the never-ending reminder of your ex, and you love them unconditionally. So why trouble them with having a different name to get used to? Surely whatever’s on their birth certificate is the name that counts? 

Divorce is a difficult word, one in which I rarely dare to tread. But so is Theodopolopodis-Smythe.  

I’m a simple soul, and maybe it is only with a simple world and simple concepts that I’m totally comfortable. But please, if you’re considering the dreaded double barrel, please look to our childrens’ future and their children’s children. 

Could this trend extend so far that your great great grandaughter is called Poppy Milligan-Taylor-Theodopolopodis-Smythe-Jones-Prentice-Hewlett-Hitchings? 

Not probable, but eminently possible.

To reunite, or not to reunite…

Your past is a funny thing isn’t it? When you look back and think of all the people you’ve met in life, you wonder how many you’d be keen to meet again. 

There’s some you would obviously rather stick hot pokers into your eyes than even bump into them at Tesco. For them, there is no debate, and I wholeheartedly endorse all hiding behind clothing rails, sharp exits from bars, and unusually overt public displays of affection with your other half, to make it far too awkward for someone to tap you on the shoulder and say: “Hi, long time no see stranger?”.

But there’s lots of people you grow up with, work with, or know through some sort of loosely connected friendship - usually founded on a bottle of cheap wine and a charred sausage at a barbeque ten years ago - that really conjure up the question: ‘Would I stop in the street to chat, or would I keep my head down, avert eyes and march past as if trying to avoid a tabard-clad Greenpeace fundraiser outside M&S?’

I have had many incidents where my normally quick thinking brain seems to go into shut down when I see such a blast from the past. In such circumstances I appear to not be quick enough to divert my gaze before they look up and smile, and then I’m forced to embark on that age old conversation of what you’ve been doing for the last 14 years, which in reality cannot be crammed into what you’re hoping will be a two minute conversation. So in reaction to the awkward and stunted conversation, you just nonchalantly say something like “oh you know, I’ve not been up to a lot, just getting on with things really.” Which for anyone in reality, is clearly not true. So why do we do it?

Perhaps I have too much to say and my subconscious is telling me not to put them through it. Or are we worried about outdoing someone, having a great story to tell that makes them feel rubbish – or even worse, being outdone by the multi-millionaire film star who was a total geek at school and has become Brad Pitt in the past decade? (just for reference, I don’t think I went to school with anyone who has achieved this – I think I know someone who did ‘extra’ work on Holby City if that counts?)

My best mate I have known since we were too young to remember a time when we didn’t know each other (if that makes sense?) We were talking the other day about bumping into people you haven’t seen in years and were both almost embarrassed to admit that we have avoided people in order to avoid the awkwardness. In fact, we have avoided some of the same people because “we just can’t be bothered”. 

So why do I think a school reunion would be interesting? Maybe I find it fascinating to see how we’ve all changed, to look around and wonder if we’d all look the same as we did 14 years ago. If we were all clad in ‘snot green’ jumpers and black trousers, wearing our Kickers shoes and Umbro or Reebok coaching tops - which were at some point for some reason the height of fashion in a mid-nineties Hucknall comprehensive. 

If we were all sat on the rickety rows of connected metal framed chairs with those heavily graffitied wooden tops, guaranteed to pierce any pair of 40 denier tights and splinter even the roughest of skin at the slightest graze - would it be like being 14 again? 

Would we all assume our old roles, or has life and time redefined the age-old school pecking order that elevated some of us to the sought-after title of the ‘popular kids’, and made some of us feel like the only way to avoid sheer humiliation on a daily basis, was to keep our heads down and make as little noise as possible?

I think whatever happened in this familiar, yet at the same time completely alien environment, it would be interesting. Part of me says “NOOOOOOOOO” it would be an awkward two minute conversation in Tesco on speed. But the other part of me says, if it was happening I would be daft not to see what would unfold. 

All I know is that if it happened, it would be rude not to start the evening drinking Hooch, Lambrini and some off-coloured spirit found in the back of the drinks cupboard, to get things going before passing the gauntlet of our old teachers and appearing completely sober, mature and respectable on entrance. 

So who’s with me..is the past worth one night of revisiting? Or should it remain firmly in our memories, however good or bad they may be? 

Dear 'the others'...

Being a mum comes with many challenges. There’s the obvious ones like gaining three stone in nine months, pushing a large item out of a very small hole, providing a 24 hour milk dispensing service and trading in a full night’s sleep for brief and sporadic snoozes. 

But then to add to that, you have the never-ending pressure of keeping up with the Gina Ford-reading, may never work another day, “what do you mean you don’t sterilise anymore?” Stepford Wives, that to all intent and purposes had never before existed to me.

I assumed that while we are all finding our way reasonably blind in the ever-surprising, complicated and evolving world of parenthood, we stick together. We listen and sympathise with each other’s woes, we turn our heads when each other are having a meltdown, or offer a cup of tea and a helping hand when any of us look a bit frazzled. We don’t compete…do we?

After experiencing what can only be described in their plural form as ‘the others’ I have recently realised how incredibly lucky I am to have supportive friends who do all of the above when I need it.

Now to ‘the others’. Being a parent, you quite unsurprisingly come across other parents frequently. Whether it be in baby clinic, Kiddicare, a swimming class or in the drop-off at nursery, often without meaning to be, you are surrounded.

I am perhaps my own worst enemy, openly engaging with these people, but it is my natural reaction when I see another baby or child, to say hello, perhaps make a funny face (all jokes about that being my normal face will be duly ignored) or even perhaps enquire after their age or name. 

Faced with my gesticulating features, I have identified three types of reaction: 

 - There’s the woman who greets you with a tight lipped, screwed up eyes smile that says “I don’t know you, how dare you talk to my child, I’m only smiling because I should”. This is easy to interpret and understand, as rude as it may seem. In this situation, you disengage, possibly move out the way, in some cases making an ‘oops’ expression to the nearest bystander as you turn away. Simple.

 - Then there’s my favourite - the mother who sees this as a chance to talk. A chance to unload their burdens and tell you way too much information about their personal life, ask if you’re also struggling with sleep (while looking like they are carrying an entire Tesco shop under their eyes) and opening up an entire five minute chat on the colour and consistency of their child’s poo. I am happy with this mother. On a tired day, this mother is possibly me, and I at least appreciate the honesty and vulnerability that we all sometimes feel while tackling such a minefield of new experiences. 

And then there’s the Super Mother. The woman who doesn’t really want you to be talking to her child, but at the same time it is a perfect opportunity to show you how wonderful and advanced said child is, while looking at your own little bundle and questioning their stage in Darwin’s theory of evolution. 

I came across a Super Mother just a few months ago, who actually came in man form - a role reversal, borne out of necessity rather than choice I might add. This paid-up member of ‘the others’ it turns out has built his child’s life around a book, written by some awful American woman, who will remain nameless (but it sounds like Nina Lord). 

At the hands of this ‘man mother’ I was subjected to an endless barrage of information on his daughter’s above-average progress, her pronounced vocabulary (even though I can’t understand a word she says) and how much further advanced she was when she was my daughter’s age. 

I don’t know why, but rather than doing the natural thing and exaggerating all the things Erin actually does to try and match up to this idyllic child, I find myself highlighting things that haven’t happened yet. Why I hear you ask? Still asking myself that question, it’s like offering up an open goal. 

“Yeah we’re not sure why she hasn’t got teeth yet, but she manages to gum all her food so I suppose she’s no different from most of the folks in my grandad’s home!” Poor attempts at bad jokes just seem to come naturally when I don’t know what to say, but essentially I just rolled over and let this imbecile have his proverbial field day. 

And then of course comes the sympathetic head tilt, and - I tell you no word of a lie - ‘back pat’ followed by a, “You mustn’t worry, she’ll get there in the end”. 

At no point during our conversation did I express any concern about my little girl. At no point did I ask for this delightful character’s advice or sympathy. As far as I’m concerned she is progressing at her own pace, and not in any way struggling – but after an hour in the company of ‘Dad of the Year’ I did walk away wondering if I needed to be worried.

Luckily, my logical mind tells me to ignore comments, looks and advice from ‘the others’ and trust my instincts and the great people around me. And to our resident ‘Dad of the Year’ I say, put down the books and remember, we taught the Americans how to look after children didn’t we? As our friends across the pond would say: “Erm…Mary Poppins, hello?!” (delivered in a raw Texan accent for effect).

Let us all refrain from competition and embrace our own vulnerabilities in this insane world that is parenthood. Otherwise we may all find ourselves in five years sat at the side of a badly erected catwalk in a community centre, watching our little darlings parade around in sequins and lycra competing for the title of Little Miss Nottingham. Let this never be so!

Dear our wonderful nurses...

‘The NHS is on its arse’. A commonly used phrase in our family, often in jest to my mum, who proudly carries with her that coveted NHS pension pot in order to keep my dad in the manner in which he’s been accustomed to when retirement beckons. However often this is used, it is rarely meant.

Now don’t worry mum, before you start with the palpitations over my pending paragraphs reflecting your many stories from the wondrous physiotherapy department, this one’s not about you. Don’t get me wrong, over the years you have presented me with enough material for a book in itself, and ‘Tales from the alcohol gel-lined broom cupboard’ will hopefully find its commission somewhere, one day.

No this week, I am focusing on our nurses. If you’ve been watching the news over the past few days, you’ve probably not missed the stories on Jeremy Hunt’s plans for the nursing profession. If you have however been watching re-runs of Alan Partridge or (god help you) Gossip Girl, then pay close attention as this will be a brief and reasonably sketchy explanation.

The Royal College of Nursing branded Hunt’s plans for newly qualified nurses to spend a year working as health care assistants, ‘stupid’. He also suggested that following the tragic circumstances at Mid Staffs hospital, the organisation should be focusing more on schemes to raise the standards of nursing across the board, and not debating plans for training.

From a ‘punters’ perspective I can see what Mr Hunt is saying. He’s trying to focus on the ‘care’ aspect of a nurse’s job, and making sure that every qualifying nurse gets ample experience of the basics of patient care. And after what happened in Staffordshire, you can understand his motivation.

But looking at it from a nursing angle, I can also see why they would see this as a slight on their profession (albeit the RCN’s ‘stupid’ response didn’t exactly offer an impassioned articulate argument).

There’s not many professions where it is suggested that you do a year in another job, before you go into the profession you have trained for. There’s not many plumbers or electricians who are sent to be an ‘odd job man’ as soon as they get their final qualifications, or many teachers who take up a caretaker’s role the minute they’ve finished their training. 

From a care perspective of course, there’s no harm in spending some time with patients, practicing the art of patient care, making sure you have the stomach for some of the more unpleasant jobs, and ensuring you understand the complexity of ‘people’ issues that arise in such a role, and not just the medical ones. 

However I would hope that while you are training, a nurse gathers this level of experience as they go. This isn’t a ‘sit at a desk and type’ profession. This is an active, involved job, that surely requires a great deal of practical experience to even get through the first year of training, never mind achieve your final qualification.

Let’s not forget also that a year is a long time (although of course not as long as it was when I was 12 for some reason!). Surely in a year of not using all your training, not actively carrying out the medical duties that care assistants aren’t qualified to do, could knock the confidence or detrimentally affect the knowledge retention of newly qualified nurses? 

Is old Hunty boy suggesting that after a year, each nurse is then given a month’s refresher course to make sure they haven’t forgotten anything from their training? Cause I have to be honest, I wouldn’t be massively keen on a nurse administering drugs to me or a member of my family, without knowing the correct amount to use, or forgetting something important like where veins are, or how a stethoscope works, for example.

My limited knowledge of the profession here has possibly diluted the debate at hand somewhat, and I’m sure there are far more intricacies involved. But I think there has to be some sense in my ramblings.

Personally, I don’t have a view as to who is right or wrong here. I can see the points from both sides, and although I really want to stand on the side of the nurses whole-heartedly (they have the drugs), I can understand some of the measures the Government is suggesting. 

I just worry that the more something like this is debated, and the more problems at a place like Mid Staffs are discussed, the more untrusting people become about nurses, and I do feel very strongly that this shouldn’t be the case.

Nurses, doctors, midwives, paramedics, physios, in fact all those working in our health service, make sure we are cared for when we need it, that we have someone to hold our hands in difficult times, that someone understands our ailments and how to treat them. 

In my opinion, they are all simply wonderful. 

Of course people make mistakes. We are all human. The difference is, if I make a mistake at work, I misspell a word, or send a contentious press statement intended for my Chief Exec to an investigative journalist (true story). But realistically I can’t cause too much damage, and not many of us can. If a nurse makes a mistake, they can hurt someone, or even kill them. What a responsibility! 

But thank goodness for those people who are prepared to take that responsibility. To literally have our lives in their hands. day-in-day-out. Because if they weren’t there, what on earth would we do?  

Nursing is the caring profession, that for all technology’s advances, in every corner of the world, there are women and men working extremely hard to keep people alive, making sure they are comfortable and cared for while they’re lying in a hospital bed. In many ways the job they do is no different to that of legendary figures such as Florence Nightingale, but I would guess it’s a great deal harder these days than it was for Flo and the Gang.  There’s more pressure on nurses to keep up with paperwork, carry out more and more complicated procedures to free-up doctors’ time, and to train regularly to advance their knowledge and expertise. Not to mention keeping to an endless regime of health and safety, infection control, and a customer service role to help handle family enquiries, complaints and break bad news.

Whatever the final decision on the future of nursing, I hope the profession as a whole and the amazing people that work in it, don’t suffer for the mistakes of a few, and are supported by their representative body, and the Government to continue to do their job - perhaps minus some of the red tape and bureaucracy eh Mr Hunt?.

If you know a nurse, share this with them and let everyone else know how valued they are.

Dear Mrs Thatcher...

It’s not like me to be a political commentator really. I like to focus on much lighter,more simple subjects like children’s television, Christmas and snow. But on the passing of such an iconic figure in British and political history, I thought I’d have my ‘two-penneth’ - as my Uncle Bill would have said - about Margaret Thatcher.

I genuinely don’t have a political persuasion. I’ve always taken my right to vote, as I wouldn’t like to think of Emily Pankhurst and all her ankle-flashing pals tying themselves to railings for nothing. But I will vote on the policies and ideals of a party, and the character of their leader (bad news for Mr Milliband.)

I’m more than happy to tell you, I’ve voted three times (yes, I’m that young) and twice opted for the Red lot, most recently turning to the Blue persuasion. Living in a mining town, I whole heartedly now expect to find a load of eggs thrown at my door and a bag of coal left under my Nordman Spruce this Christmas. 

Despite austere times, I pretty much stand by my decision for the minute, as for me and my family, I can’t complain. I’m however rather fickle and could easily be swayed down the red or even yellow brick road by a cut in Corporation Tax or an end to Stamp Duty and a huge cash injection to the NHS – providing said manifesto was delivered by someone with slightly more gumption than a cabbage.

So when I heard the news of Margaret Thatcher’s death, I wasn’t in the celebratory Prescott-Scargill camp, and I wasn’t on the ‘she was a wonderful woman’ bandwagon either. I was simply sad. 

I wasn’t necessarily sad for the fact that she had died. Of course it is a sad occasion when anyone dies, but when you reach the age of 87, you have lived a long life, achieved a great deal, and when you move on to wherever you believe you’re going, your life should be celebrated.

I was sad for her family. Even before I saw the news on her death, I had already seen horrendous and disrespectful comments from, to be honest, people I thought better of. 

I understand that as a Prime Minister she polarised opinion. But she wasn’t a murderer, she didn’t abuse children, she never stole or attacked anyone, she wasn’t a terrorist or a dictator. Whatever her professional and political choices, views, decisions or actions, she was a mother. She was a grandmother, a sister, someone’s wife, a friend and a respected colleague to many. In essence, she was loved in life, and her memory and those who remember her, deserve respect and to be given time to grieve.

She will be remembered by many for shutting down the mines, for the Falklands War, as the ‘Iron Lady’ who set up the Community Charge (poll tax), and the one who narrowly escaped assassination at the hands of the IRA.

I’m not old enough to understand the intricacies of what happened during Thatcher’s Government, but I do know that she was the longest serving Prime Minister in the 20th Century – so someone liked her, because plenty of people kept voting for her.

I also know that she was a woman in a man’s world. She was a strong character, equaled the intellect and political standing of each man around her, and still managed to be the wife, mother and grandmother that her family will remember. 

I was speaking to a woman just last week who I’m writing a story on, and during our chat she mentioned how inspired she was by Margaret Thatcher. 

She works in the automotive industry, and started her career working as a mechanic for a race team. She has spent 16 years working in a man’s world – which I think it is safe to say, the automotive industry is – and told me very honestly that “it’s been bloody hard work at times”. 

She has had many situations where just her presence in a workshop has been questioned. She was even once offered a job as a secretary during an interview for a senior mechanic’s role – just because she was the only woman there.

Many people would have given up and taken that secretary’s job. But she told me that during the most difficult of situations, when sexual harassment was ‘par for the course’ and her opinion was often ignored by her colleagues, she would think of women like Thatcher - “if she could do it. I can.”

Anyone that knows me well, will know I’m the last person to champion feminism, or any bra-burning, Germaine Greer activity of any kind. But I have to say I agree with this statement wholeheartedly, and will do my best to instill that attitude in my daughter – as soon as we’ve got over the learning to eat without throwing it across the room bit!

I don’t regard anyone I work with as men and women – well I do obviously in the sense that some have boobs and some don’t – but I’ll respect anyone’s opinion, whether they be man, woman, dog or Forest fan. 

I think there’s still the attitude in management that if a woman is tough, hard-working, effective and focused, that she’s a bit of a bitch, or has no time for her family. When your equivalent man would undoubtedly be a hard-ass, business tycoon, with that ‘no messing’ sort of attitude that everyone respects. 

For me personally, Thatcher’s legacy will be the example she set for strong women, and if we look around us today, in the past 20 years we have seen more and more women standing out in business and politics. Of course they will have to ignore the ‘bitch’ comments for now, but let’s hope in time this perception will change.

Mrs T. She will be remembered, in whatever way. We all have the right to love her, hate her, or be indifferent. I think she’d be pleased to know she was the talking point in every workplace, pub and on every sofa across the country for one final time – whatever you were saying about her. 

I just hope that when her family remember her tomorrow, that the country will allow them that privilege.

See you Mags, give Denis our best.

Dear 2013: Dear Senna senior citizens

Dear 2013: Dear Senna senior citizens: In any profession you would generally value decades of experience.  You’d trust a doctor with 40 years’ experience over a young ‘whipper-sn...

Dear Senna senior citizens

In any profession you would generally value decades of experience. You’d trust a doctor with 40 years’ experience over a young ‘whipper-snapper’ who looks like they may still be at the Bunsen burner and frog dissection stage of their training. 

But I’m afraid when it comes to some things, experience isn’t always the most reassuring attribute - driving, for example.

If I hear someone has 20, even 30 years’ experience on the roads, I’d feel pretty safe in their hands. But as time passes on, and the decade odometer reaches a healthy four or five, then I believe something starts to happen.

Suddenly after forty confident driving years behind them, people start to lose their nerve. Maybe it’s because your reactions perhaps aren’t what they were, or because your pace of life is slowing, so everything you do slows (significantly), but it’s another one of those things about getting older that I just can’t wait for. 

I can only use personal points of reference, and although I feel it is unfair to generalise, I’m guessing most of you will know someone in their latter years who is quite literally a law unto themselves on the roads.

I found myself almost falling victim to a ‘geriatric person plough’ recently when making the fatal mistake of traversing the road at a zebra crossing. I can only thank my daughter for the fact that she was with me, as crossing the road is far more of an ordeal when you’re crossing with a pram. I probably look left and right about 20 times these days - far more than the Highway Code Hedgehog used to advise – to make sure when I step out with the pram ahead of me, that the two of us have safe passage. 

Waiting outside Nabbs shops – the mecca of retail in the North Hucknall area – I was stood at the Zebra crossing, looking left and right like an Abba tribute band on speed, when I made the adjudication that the cars approaching were slowing down to allow me to cross before they arrived at the crossing. 

Or were they?

Luckily I saw the make and model of one of the cars that was, although approaching slowly, not necessarily reducing in speed. The brand new ‘probably only got 69 miles on the clock’ Suzuki Wagon rang some ‘Motability’ alarm bells in my head, and I hesitated before crossing. 

Being the granddaughter of an elderly couple who have been accessing cars on the Government’s Motability scheme since God was a lad (well, a while anyway) I was acutely aware that some cars, like the Wagon, are almost solely dedicated for such schemes. These vehicles were surely the product of a rather disgruntled Suzuki design employee delivering a final blow, before handing in their resignation and pursuing some sort of tribunal.

There was a 98 percent probability that the driver of a Motability car was over the age of 70 and one of the following things was about to happen:

A – they would drive straight over the crossing, totally oblivious to me at the side of the road, any other road users, or in fact the road itself

B – They would suddenly realise what was happening, panic and attempt to slow down, while waving vigorously at me to apologise, and proceed to plough into the parked cars nearby.

Thankfully this old chap went for option A. I say thankfully, I wouldn’t have been so thankful had I actually crossed the road and trusted the judgement of the driver, as me and Erin would have almost certainly been hit. But as the Wagon sailed past us, I noted the man’s nose raised so high in the air to enable him to actually see over the steering wheel, hands at ten and two and totally ignoring the babbles of his wife, who had clearly just been to the hairdressers, proudly wearing her rain hood over her recently pruned three-inch perm. My suspicions confirmed.

Stood with my mouth gaping open at the utter disregard for the road, pedestrians or any other vehicles, I turned to the car behind to see a man around my dad’s age (young, very young obviously) shaking his head and rubbing his brow in relief, clearly expecting to have been peeling me and Erin from the bonnet of the Wagon at that point.

This incident made me realise that the only reason there aren’t more accidents with the over seventies is down to the awareness and reactions of everyone else.

And of course, it’s not always the activity on the open road. Almost certainly the primary target for the menacing ‘Senna senior citizen’ is the lined tarmac of a car park.

Over the years I have witnessed some rather interesting parking experiences either as a passenger or innocent bystander to my beloved grandparents (who I hope will forgive my indulgence), and it’s not just the parking itself that never ceases to amaze, it’s the reaction of the culprit. 

On a family day out to Center Parcs about five years ago, my Grandad was able to park practically in the reception area with his disability Blue Badge, while the rest of us parked fifteen miles away in a space the size of a Raleigh Chopper. 

As we all walked down towards reception, we could see that despite arriving five minutes before, my Grandad was still attempting to reverse a large Citroen Picasso into, an equally large disabled space, carefully indicated by a metal post. 

Every single jaw started to slowly drop as we watched my Grandad reverse (diagonally of course) as fast as someone on a Bond film driving over a body (just to make sure he’d definitely killed them) towards said metal post. 

Low and behold, we heard the ‘boing’ and watched the post wobble in the ground, as Grandad slammed his brakes on and parked, boot still touching the post. 

But the best bit was yet to come.

As he got out the car, my sister shouted “Bri” (we’ve always called him Bri rather than Grandad) “Bri…you just hit that post.” And despite the loud ‘boing’, the obvious crunch on the boot, and probably the bang that would have been felt in the car, his reaction was classic, “What post ducky?” 

Not a jar of glue. Neither of them, my Gran looked as shocked as he did.

They were either great actors, or just totally unaware of what had happened and the damage that had been caused. Brilliantly when informed of the ‘prang’, my Grandad didn’t even join my Dad and Uncle at the back of the car to mull over the damage like men like to do. Wasn’t bothered at all, was far too keen to have a cappuccino and a sit down. 

Not your first time Mr Shelbourne? I think not.

My Gran doesn’t escape here either I’m afraid. An expert ‘Senna senior citizen’, my Gran used to bounce off the fence outside our house as she did a three-point-turn, using it like a bumper lane at the bowling alley – I can’t isolate an incident, it was just something we became accustomed to after a while. However now the fence is gone, she manages fine without it!

There have also been many wing mirror incidents, alloys have shuddered with fear as they saw her approach, and she’s even scraped her entire left wing on her own garden wall. But thankfully, she’s never hurt herself or anyone else on the roads.

My grandparents I know are not alone. If you ever drive out on a Sunday, or around 11am on a weekday, you’ll undoubtedly have a slower journey as you trundle along behind a Ford Fiesta with a blue rinse or flat cap at the helm. 

But are these smaller things enough to deem the older generation ‘dangerous’ on the roads? Me and my husband have had countless conversations, while out in the car, that there should be some sort of ‘roadworthy’ test for the over seventies. Some would pass, but I’m sure many would fail. 

It seems sensible in a way, as you wouldn’t allow somebody with slower reactions to fly a Boeing 737, so why would you put somebody on a road, with far more traffic, if they can’t react quickly enough.

As a general rule, I think this plan makes sense. But then I think about the effect this would have on my own Gran. She can’t bear to be stuck at home, has never taken public transport anywhere, and sees her car as her freedom and independence. Take that away and you’re left with a lady who has to adjust, and at 75 it can’t be easy to change your lifestyle and routine.

It’s a quandary that, as a Government, I wouldn’t like to address (and they probably never would as the over-seventies probably make up the majority of voters), but is it something we should consider? Or could it cause more problems than it’s worth? 

Whatever your feelings on the subject, I would strongly advise you to always be alert when spotting a Suzuki Wagon trundling towards you, always park further away from the supermarket to keep your bumpers in tact, and never wave to my Gran if you spot her out driving - she wouldn’t see you if you were wearing a Neon sandwich board with the words “Hello Brenda” on them..and quite right, I’d much prefer her to keep her eyes on the road and hands at ten and two!

I dedicate this blog to all my favourite old folks, past and present.