A few weeks ago on a train to Birmingham for the Conservative Party conference I found myself in a heated debate with two fellow travellers, only one of whom I know. I should point out this doesn’t happen very often, but party conferences do funny things to people, of which talking to complete strangers on the train is possibly the least weird.
I spent this weekend on a yoga retreat. It wasn’t terribly successful as on Sunday morning I fell down the stairs and sprained my ankle, rendering any further participation in sun salutations or downward facing dogs nigh on impossible. As you might imagine, the place was full of healing hands and there was plenty of positive energy all directed at my ankle.
We are not, on the whole, particularly child-centric in this country. Anyone with young children who has attempted to eat in a restaurant after 6pm knows this. It is often preferable to beat a hasty retreat rather than face the glares of fellow diners as your toddler runs around the table legs and your six-year old whizzes toy cars across the table. I’ve even been in a National Trust café where we were told off for ‘letting’ my friend’s son get cake crumbs on the floor.