There’s an unwritten rule that no one can slag off your home town except yourself. It is fine for you to gripe and moan about where you come from, but as soon as someone else has a go, you become staunchly proud of your roots and demand that your hometown is the best place in the world!
I should know. Coming from Bradford, I have more reason to invoke this than most. My hometown has been host to race riots, the area I grew up in once elected a BNP councillor (imagine me shuddering with horror as I admit this) and the majority of the town centre was nothing but a giant hole and a pile of rubble for the best part of the last ten years as a failing economy stalled the only major development to grace Bradford in decades.
These are among the many reasons I left fifteen years ago. Since then, I have only returned for brief stopovers between jobs and travels or to visit my family and friends.
But try to slag it off yourself and see how proudly I’ll defend its diversity and cultural heritage, despite not living there for over a decade. It’s my right. There’s plenty I dislike about it, but it’s my home and I love it.
As I settle into my second stint of maternity leave, I’m wondering if there’s a similar rule for being a mum.
Yesterday, I found myself at a rare loose end – my eldest was at nursery, my youngest was asleep in the pram and I didn’t have time to go home before I was due at baby massage. I snuck into a cosy café and settled myself for an indulgent half hour with a good book (not a bad life!).
Unfortunately, I had pitched up next to two more mums killing time. Let’s face it, that’s all that cafes are full of during the day: mums and lots of ‘creative-types’, tapping away at their fancy laptops as they stretch out one drink for two hours to avoid paying for any actual office space.
I tried to concentrate on my book, but was endlessly distracted by nosy toddlers peering at my baby and their mums’ inane chatter. I began to pay more attention to them and less to my book, and a sad realisation dawned on me. Mums are boring. Really boring! In the time I sat next to them they had long conversations debating the merits of carrot sticks over rice cakes as a snack, and telling each other their children’s sleep patterns in intricate detail. I don’t mean to be rude, but even they looked bored. Bored by their own thoughts; in desperate need of some adult conversation, but unable to come up with any substance for it.
I’m being horrible. I know I am, and I knew it then, but I have a get out clause. I can moan about boring mums, because I am one! At times I can hold interesting conversations: debate the merits and perils of bombing Syria; discuss which Booker Prize winner is my favourite; discuss whether or not Luther is the true masterpiece of TV drama (erm, yes it is and it’s on again in a few weeks! Yey!!!). Yet much of the time I find myself rambling on about how well my eldest son can write the letter ‘A’ or explaining how I’ve been won over by cloth nappies over disposables. It’s important to me, but I know it’s dull as dishwater to the vast majority of the population, me included. Sadly, that doesn’t stop me.
The truth is, a lot of the time, I am boring. Because mums are boring. But it’s ok. I’m allowed to say it, because I am one, and I bloody love it!