Like Riding a Bike

Not a real bike obviously, although I do have a very smart red and yellow one. Its supposed to be a mountain bike (a misnomer if ever I heard one) complete with a full range of gizmos - chunky wheels, rubber springy thingies, unfeasible amount of gears. Trouble is, all the extras just make it heavy and given the unrelentingly perpendicular landscape around here (imagine trying to pedal a two wheeled Hummer up a hill) it spends most of its time looking smart in my shed - but I digress.

What I'm long-windedly trying to say is once you've done it - baby handling that is - you never forget, perhaps I should rephrase that - baby handling sounds like some sort of horse singing or dog whistling service. Suffice it to say I have definitely located my inner Granny - or more correctly my inner Nana F, that's the name I've settled on by the way - the others opted for Nanny, Grandad. Grandma and Pops.

Only problem is, my inner Nana F seems to be a bit of a worrywart. Her instincts are to wrap Baby S, aka George, in layers of blankets, hats, gloves and preferably a sterile bubble before leaving the house and its only August. God knows where she came from because I don't recall wanting to boil my own kids alive, or be such a boring fusspot. Maybe the granny equivalent of maternal feeling (graternal?) has got an old lady gene built in - yuk! what a horrible thought.

When I accompanied Daughter A. and soon-to-be-son-in-law S. on George's, oops, Baby S's, inaugural outing into the real world, it was all I could do to keep my inner Nana F from chucking herself into the road to stop inconsiderate lorries belching exhaust fumes into George's precious new lungs. I will have to have strict words with myself, don't want some crazy alter-nana turning me into an over graternal anxious old bore. Fortunately, A and S, bless them, seem unfazed by my sudden multiple personality disorder and are still happy to have me around.

Have to say, Baby S. looked very cute in her smart new pram, and so she should. What seems like ages ago, when she was still a George shaped bump, we all went on a pram research trawl through the stores. And I am here to tell you, it was not the simple business I'd expected that's for sure.

You can't just walk into a shop and say I'll have that nice red one please, or least you can't in the mother and baby dept. of John Lewis, oh no. Firstly, we had to collect a number ( bit like the deli counter in Waitrose) and get assigned a pram consultant, then wait while duly assigned pram consultant dealt with the fifty odd, largely pregnant customers in front of us. Oh yes, and they're not simply prams anymore, they're travel systems fully equipped with bits and pieces that morph into other bits and pieces suitable for every travel occasion from plane to train to car and barely need pushing.

However, by the time our consultant was free, the only thing daughter A was interested in was locating a chair for herself and bump George to collapse on, and even my curiosity, having become the unwitting beneficiary of more pramly information than any right minded Granny should be privy to, had waned somewhat. Fortunately, nearly-son-in-law S, took over and as usual was brilliant. He asked all the right questions - was it light enough, small enough, safe enough, tough enough - did it have a roll bar (think the last one was some sort of boy thing!!) and took several systems round the display stands for test drives. After a sit, Daughter A. rallied and joined in with some questions, finally fixing on a pretty blue one. I wisely kept my one question to myself - bloody hell, how much?

Consequently, in addition to becoming a granny spotter, a baby checker (have to look at them all just to check they're not as pretty as Baby S.) I have become quite the pram aficionado and can discriminate between a Bugaboo, and a Maxi Cosi with a mere glance. And if you need a quick run through the respective merits of a Quinney as opposed to a Maclaren (the finger chopper offer) look no further.

Mind you, Baby S would look beautiful even if A & S pushed her around in a wheelbarrow so who cares. God, I love being a Granny