A splendid Teutonic rant from my friend Fran. If you don’t say ‘Yup, that’s the truth,’ you’ve been living in a cave for several years.


Spring comes again, and there they are, out to get us.
They come either in triple cohorts, along the pavement, no space for anybody else, so if you do not walk in their direction, you can only jump under the bus. Or the lorry, whatever drives by.

If you do not walk into their direction, it gets worse. They become a pack of wolves, out to get you, shoving their tank-like wheeled protrusion right into your heels – and you are ALWAYS slower than them. “Out of our way” they seem to scream, “we have single-handedly saved the world by pushing these geniuses out of our formerly hot and yummy bodies. You owe us for the sacrifice! Down with you, slave!”

Unlucky you, when you manage to catch the bus before they trot over you with their buggies bringing you down and their trainers marking you as untermensch. Because just at the next bus-stop they have created an ambush, four women, at least one having a twin buggy, entering the bus, already full with the refugees from the mommy revenge front. They push and shove, after all they are experts in that as their little alarm-bells give witness – you know these little alarm bells that look like the doll you or your sister got for Christmas once. And when you do not manage to get out of their way fast enough, they yell and curse and mark you as THE child-hater (Miserific – like misogynist, just with erifos, old Greek for child), that one insult that lets even the docile Miss Marple-version in the seat you just gave up for her look at you as if you had a baby this morning for breakfast – well done and with mustard.

And don’t you try to hide in a shop or even worse a drugstore or a supermarket. They will not only push your heels again, wherever they can get away with that – they will also cut you at the check-out “You don’t mind, do you, little Kevin-Jocelyn needs their nap/nappy/mid-morning breast and I have to get home in time!”

To add insult to injury you cannot even go into a nice bistro to have some quiet time with a breakfast and your paper – there in the corner the Breastfeed-Brigade meets, spoiling your morning by loud and elaborate tales of breastfeeding-woes like sore nipples and mastitis. Thank you very much, that was just what I needed with all that depressing news around.

And what do I read in my paper: There are no children any more in Germany …