Truro Tantrums

The day started well enough. Sunny, bright, all that kind of thing. I rang my sister (www.lucyapple.com) who was coming back from London and arranged to meet her at Truro.

Then the post came. I'm currently suing the Metropolitan Police for four wrongful arrests and three assaults (two of which were when I was pregnant). I'm not getting legal aid, so I'm representing myself and don't have a clue what I'm doing. I've represented myself in many criminal cases, but civil ones are totally different, so I'm making it up as I go along.

The case is at a stage where I knew I had to serve what is called an "allocation questionnaire". However I believed I still had a month to complete the document. So I was surprised when I received the defence's questionnaire in the post. So far, they have served every document on the last possible day, which at least gave me the idea of checking the date.

Yes, you've guessed it. The final date for service was 27th March. I frantically rant the court and established it was acceptable to fax the questionnaire. Unfortunately I don't have a fax, but I had a dim recollection I could send them at the library.

I spent the next hour wading through two boxfiles and two lever arch folders of legal documents (and as I'm writing this, I've remembered I've forgotton to add in the name of the psychiatrist) and trying to waffle my way through the form.

So, I figured, go to Truro an hour early, send the faxes and go to Mothercare (to buy a toilet seat for Jack in a probably futile bid to banish the potty from our lives).

It started well, Jack even helping me tidy up because he was excited about seeing his Auntie "Lu Lu". The library was where it started going wrong.

Jack ran straight into the children's section. Seated on the floor with her two toddlers was a yummy fucking mummy - all nicely dressed and well spoken. I rushed in, messy, dodgy anarcho parent, saying to Jack "you'll be okay to stay here while I go down there to sort my stuff out."

He agreed. I pointed to where I was going and left to evil stares.

I didn't leave him for long, I checked on him every couple of minutes. Whilst this was going on, I received a panicky call from my sister, saying she was still in Plymouth and had to change trains. Lucy doesn't like changing trains because it is awkawrd with her disability and it's pot luck as to whether anyone will offer to give her a hand.

So, given more time to kill, I decided to browse through the older kids books, as on a good day, Jack will listen to longer stories. Amongst these books was William Horwoods, "Skallagrigg", a deeply disturbing and graphic account of disability. Whilst not wanting to censor what kids read, I figuered it could really disturb an eight year old, so thought I'd be a good citizen and take it to the desk for refiling.

"Excuse me. I found this in the children's section. It doesn't belong there."

"Yes it does. He writes for children." Prim, stuck up librarian."

"No he doesn't. Trust me this is not a kid's book." I was struggling to remain calm.

"Yes it is." She was stubborn. And then it came to me and I was calm and polite,

"Well. Personally I don't mind if my child reads something that repeatedly contains the word 'fuck', but I think you'll find a lot of other parents will object."

She flicked through the book.

"Yes, this is an adult's book."

"Yes, I know."

"Oh, well. He normally writes for children."

"No he doesn't. His re written the Wind in the Willows but the rest of his work is for adults."

She didn't say anything and I left seething at her smugness.

Back to the car to pay for another extortionate hour's parking, and Jack started playing up. Now, I'm a pretty libertarian parent, but road safety (or should that be car safety, given road safety seems to be a nice euphemism to pretend cars aren't the real problem), turns me into a shrieking banshee. Jack, unfortunately knows this. And the more hysterical I got, the more he laughed at me. And more the fucking yummy mummys stared, tutting their self-righteous smugness.

I needed coffee. We waited in line. I told Jack he could have a juice but I wouldn't buy him a treat. Suddenly there was a little hand on mine,

"Sorry, Emily."

I thanked him for saying sorry but I still wasn't going to buy him anything, although I compromised on a croissant. We sat on a bench outside because there's nowhere you can go and get a coffee and have a fag anymore (yes, I know. Another of those great maternal habits. Although I'd like to point out I don't smoke inside at home - therefore the odd occasions I'm out and get to have a fag inside are a realy luxury).

I apologised to Jack for being so cross and asked him whether he knew why I was so cross. He told me it was because of the roads and I explained the forever spoken parental cry of "it's only because I love you."

And all the way back to the car he held my hand and chatted and I felt things were right again.