Common people

Counting crying children isn’t most people’s idea of a fun way to spend a day off, but you shouldn’t knock it until you try it. Actually I will go further and suggest any of you whose interest has been piqued by one of Britain’s fastest growing spectator sports try it sooner rather than later. Because if you don’t take advantage prior to becoming a parent then you run the risk of joining the “you wouldn’t say that if you had kids” brigade (YWSTIYHKB for short) and this guilty pleasure will be taken away forever.

With the sun making a surprising, early and welcome return to our shores, I’ve found myself spending much of my free time on Clapham Common. I spent much of my teenage and twenty-something years playing football and getting drunk in Clapham. So it came as something of a surprise to find hidden away from the Windmill pub and plots perfect for footy a spacious cafeteria and bandstand area.

Ideal for those without a ball or a wish to spend their time sozzled during the daytime it’s a haven for Clapham’s well off mothers, dog walkers and fitness freaks. Admittedly throughout the night it’s used for far less salubrious reasons but in short when homosexual men aren’t cottaging in nearby shrubbery it’s a great place to spend an hour or two.

With a raised bank up one side of the bandstand (perfect for high speed skating), a concrete pathway (perfect for working up some speed on the scooter) all surrounded by gravel (perfect for high speed bicycle skids) it’s dreamtime for the scores of youngsters let off the leash while their parents do coffee and check their blackberries. And it wasn’t long until I started noticing, then counting the number of kid’s afternoons which featured a mandatory five-minute crying break.

On one afternoon in March I counted twenty crying children. At the start of April I managed thirteen, although on that occasion I wasn’t around for so long. Last Sunday I was joined by Sinan & Richard and although it took them a while to get comfortable with my idea of fun it wasn’t long before we were making scarily accurate guesses about which of the children would be in tears next.

It soon became apparent that the faster the child was careering around on their bike the greater the chance they would soon be lying prostrate on the gravel staring at their grazed hands in horror. That the small kids who spent half their time desperately trying to keep up with their older siblings would spend the other half wrapped round their parents in floods of tears in frustration at failing. And woe betide the foolish child who attempts to eat an ice cream and manoeuvre their scooter at the same time.

I’d like to say it’s the strangest sporting activity I’ve ever undertaken on Clapham Common. But memories of taking a dip in the duck pond with Nicky B are still as fresh in the mind. And I have yet to write about the joys & all round weirdness that I’m currently experiencing as part of my new BMF regime. But for those of you who like to keep a record of such thing, in the end we broke the record by three children. But the summer is still young.