She can be having a major melt down, her world totally falling apart. And then sees a button, and all is right again.
I don’t mean the kind of buttons you get on clothes; she’s not a simpleton.
I’m talking about the buttons for electric doors, computers, mobiles. That kind of thing.
An ideal afternoon for Nancy is going round to Ulrika’s, where she can ring the doorbell, followed by a trip to the big Boots in town, where we take the lift up to the first floor, Nancy having pressed the number 1.
Buttons don’t just cover electronic devices, mind.
Turns out nipples fall into the same category.
Nancy loves nothing more than pulling up my top and pushing ‘mummy’s buttons’, which, although I have very little feeling in my boobs post-breastfeeding, I can certainly feel that.
It all went a bit tits up on the train back from my mum’s the other day though.
I’m right on top-of-it in terms of knowing which carriage to get on to have space for a buggy. Coach F on the East Coast service, and any carriage with red stripes around the door for Southern Rail, FYI.
It’s a bit grim, mind, as the buggy/ wheelchair area is right next to the loo.
Which is in constant use, and smells like twenty years of fermenting piss.
Now, after an hour in the car, two hours on one train, a trip across London on the underground where there’s no lifts so I have to lurk around like a desperado/ weirdo, waiting for someone to grab the other end of the pram; I am keen to get Nancy out of the buggy.
As Nancy sits on the seat next to me on the train, both of us with magazines; mine- Grazia, Nancy’s- In the Night Garden, I feel like it’s a window into the future. Nancy and I hanging out, the girls together.
But Nancy’s got other ideas.
Just as a woman in her thirties goes into the loo, Nancy hops off her chair, eyes wide with anticipation, and gleefully shouts, ‘button, Mummy!’ as she presses the large flashing OPEN disc, next the toilet.
Unfortunately, the woman inside must have pressed, close, but not lock, as the arced door starts to slide open, in what feels like slow motion.
But once the door is in motion, it doesn’t stop until fully open, so I’m panicking my face off, frantically pressing the button on one side. And the woman inside is doing the same thing whilst sat on the loo.
We lock eyes as I mouth, ‘sorry!’ before the door starts to slowly close again, about a millimetre a second.
A few moments later, the woman emerges, pants up.
We ignore each other, and I strap Nancy into the buggy for the remainder of the train journey.
Whereby melt down extravaganza prevails.
But I suspect that's better that than watching half the Southern Rail customers going for a poo.