Older Mums

The sandpit in the playground at Centennial Park is only party covered by the sunshade at midday. Surely that's a design fault. In any case, most of the children are playing elsewhere, it's the mothers who are huddled under the shade, trying to save what's left of their skin.

There are lots of "older mothers" in Sydney. I don't know whether it's a trend across Australia but it's noticable here. You are always on the verge of a faux pas by referring to a grandchild instead of a child. I heard today on the radio that the incidence of twin births in Australia has risen considerably in the last decade. They didn't say why (sloppy journalism, Paxman would be livid), but it must be down to older mothers and IVF.

I presume some of the older ones have climbed their career ladders and are now finding their posh heels can't grip the rungs when they're trying to balance a baby on one clicky hip. I wonder again what's the point of climbing the career ladder in the first place if you are eventually going to find jam on the important papers in your briefcase. Try explaining that one to a childless manager. They don't get it. It's always going to be a struggle after that.

Some of them make it look effortless. The younger mothers wear the exhaustion a bit better than the older ones. The older ones wear caps and glasses to hide the worst of the damage. My head isn't the right shape for a cap and in any case, I'm on the cusp of being an older mother, or at least, that's the story I'm buying.

I've finally bought new sunglasses, since we mislaid my lovingly-customised Oakleys. They do a much better job but the design makes me look and feel like Pauline Collins in the film Shirley Valentine. I even have a hat similar to hers. All I need now is for Tom Conti to kiss my stretch marks and bingo, I'm there. I'm Shirley.

Surprisingly, I love hanging out at the park. I talk to a few people but watch many more, particularly the so-called "helicopter parents" who hover around their kids, not really allowing them any space or room to breathe. Apparently there's a whole school of thought called "attachment parenting" which has some fans here in Sydney. It broadly requires the mother to remain physically attached to the child at all times. I'm not sure what's worse, attachment parenting or a Saga holidays cruise. I don't much fancy either.

I met a jewish woman called Tess in the sandpit yesterday. Tess was what I'd call an older mum. Less kind souls wuld have called her geriatric. She was from Johannesburg originally and regretted settling in Sydney because she felt Melbourne would have offered a better lifestyle. It's funny, you never hear anyone wishing they lived in Perth or Adelaide or Brisbane. It's as though those cities have no importance. "In Melbourne, in the Jewish community, everyone looks after you when you have a baby. People bake you cakes and do your housework and your ironing. It's old-fashioned, but it's how it should be, you need to get your strength back". She's right. Sydney reminds me of London, people pay other people to do the jobs their family would do if they weren't elsewhere. It's a city of people passing through.