Crazy driving. My worries as a parent.

Well, my worries in general; but now I'm a parent, I can sound more middle England.

When I used to walk to the station alone on my way to work, even though I was pregnant I used to cross anywhere, playing Frogger through gaps in the traffic. Once my precious cargo was truly in this world (and probably - I don't remember - once I was very big and pretty sure the baby was sticking around), I started walking the longer way to use the zebra crossing. Now, the crossing is not well-placed: a few metres from a mini roundabout on a corner (a tri-crossing), meaning cars zoom round the corner and can't slow down in time, and a few metres from a corner, meaning cars don't see, don't anticipate, and don't slow down in time. (I'll post a photo later). Anyway, quite often, I have to wait for one or other lane of traffic to stop, and more often than not, a car zooms over the crossing. To give them their dues, the drivers do often wave their apology, but really, too little too effing late. If I weren't scared for my own and the baby's welfare, and trying to set a good example of quiet tolerance to my baby, I'd give them a round bollocking, but mostly I just scowl, or shake my head, or otherwise attempt to exhibit my shock or despondency to the other drivers, so they can feel pleased with themselves and their safe and courteous driving, which I hope will reinforce good driving behaviour. (I know, I am delusional. And a little self-important).

Anyway, the kind of crazy driving beloved of our youth, the Poles over the road and local mini-cab drivers was limited, I thought, to the generally scary folk of North-East London. But no. It happens in leafy Muswell Hill, too. Leafy, bourgeois, yummy mummy Muswell Hill. We were invited last weekend to a Christmas knees-up in the rather specific interval of 3-5pm. We arrived late, in a flap, having dropped and smashed the wine as we walked the wrong way up the street looking for the flat. Poor Babs was in the throes of an eye infection which had suddenly developed such that her little eye was gummed shut when we woke her from her little travelling slumber. And walking up the road, a car zoomed so fast it made us look up, and so close to a parked car that it knocked the rear-view mirror clean off. It was quite alarming. The driver seemed to slow down, and I naturally assumed he would stop, but no, just drove off. Anyway, I took the number, and I was determined to let the other car's driver know, having just spent £100 getting my car fixed after someone bumped it outside the house and left it for us to find. But someone had borrowed my pen the day before, so we couldn't find it. So we wrote both numbers in Terry's iPhone, so we could let someone know.

That was a week ago. I'd look into it now, but the baby's awake, I need a shower, and I've just opened an email giving me a month's notice (so unfair at this time of year) on a room in my dad's flat. Bugger.

Crazy driving though. I worry.