I know I know, I am writing about baby related stuff twice in one week, but this one is just too good to pass up. For those of you utterly repelled by anything related to little people, I understand completely. I think [your favorite TV program] is on TV at this very moment. Run.

So having this newfound, morbid curiosity to check out every baby group within a three mile radius, I hit another one yesterday at yet another community center. You have to hand it to this country; they provide a lot of free, worthwhile services to those that are willing and interested. For those of you that just mumbled a curse word followed by something that rhymes with…‘motialist’(I realize motialist is not a word but I couldn’t think of anything that rhymes with socialist) don’t worry, all this free stuff will disappear soon enough.

Today’s group was once again for new moms. However this group of women looked barely out of the hospital and their babies were no bigger than breasts of chicken. Scarily small, anemic little chickens that made the King once again look like the Hulk. Thank goodness his esteem is impervious. How these women had the energy or know how to leave the house at this stage of the game is utterly beyond me. I could barely remember my partner's name let alone find a group and get baby and me out of the house to attend it.

So as I walked in with my 20-pound cargo, I instantly felt the spotlight on the two of us – you see, we were the future and I’m not sure any of the mothers in the room were in the mood to see it. In fact, the King remained the only baby on the play mat as most of the others clung to their mother’s chests like limpets as they could barely open their eyes. The King of course did everything to show how adult and badass he was. This included drooling, farting, burping and laughing. I think he had a feeling he was the center of attention and thought he’d put on a show…so like his mother.

I was then told that there was a guest speaker that day that would talk about first aid. I gave the group a gold star for being informative, which of course was quickly retracted when I realized there was no tea, coffee, or scones. How the heck did they want me to concentrate? So this 85 year-old woman stood up and took to the front of the room, and I quickly surmised that she was the first aid ‘expert.’ Picture this if you will, one of Marge Simpson’s sisters (Zelma is it?), put 40 pounds on her and make her about six foot one and built like a rugby player. Then make her about as wrinkly and weathered as you can – think dehydrated fruit -  and give her a voice that sounds like she’s been smoking Marlboro reds for the past fifty years. You think I’m kidding but I’m not. In her possession was a beat up, equally as weathered doll with a face that looked as if it had been melted on a hot stove. I certainly was not leaving this woman alone with the King.

Her opening line - ‘So you’re baby's not breathing, what do you do?’ She then swung around and pointed at one of us wanting an answer like it was some quiz show. I was about to say ‘sh*t myself,’ but I didn’t think that was the answer she was looking for. Furthermore, the mere mention of any of our babies not breathing made half the room jump. Our babies without pulses apparently wasn’t descriptive enough as she then added that our baby’s lips had turned blue and he didn’t look good. Hell woman, get me a freakin’ scone why don’t you? She then leaned forward, opened her mouth like a giant predator and performed CPR on her poor defenseless doll.

From there it just got more macabre. She proceeded to go through an entire list of every tragedy, trauma, and catastrophe from epileptic fits to burns, heart attacks, attack of killer bees, locusts, down to bloody rickets (just kidding), and then gave a frighteningly thumbnail sketch of how to deal with each occasion. By the end of it, we were all clutching our babies wishing Miss Craggle Voice would take her information elsewhere. The best was when she would crack some joke – or her version of a joke – and then sputter and cough to the point that I thought she was going to lose a lung on the play mat. My favorite bit had to be her closing remarks, just after she reminded us she was not a doctor (um okay?), she then sputtered, “oh I forgot something…COLD SORES! I get them all the time, and that garbage at the pharmacy doesn’t work, so don’t even bother."

OH world, keep these gems coming, please.

One thing I’ve never understood since I’ve lived in England is the notion of squatting (the whole leasehold/freehold thing also makes no sense to me, but that’s for another time). I mean, I understand it, I just can’t believe it still exists...or that I didn't think of it first. For those of you that don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, squatting refers to occupying an empty house, that is not yours, and in short, acting like it belongs to you.

When I first heard about this my first thought was, yeah, great, we’d all like to inhabit a place that is not ours; there are a few houses near where I live that I walk by every night and think, gosh that would be nice. But I figure that if I just walked in and positioned myself in the living room and refused to leave that would be grounds to call the police, or at least the loony bin. The thing that shocked me the most is that squatting in England is not a criminal offense. It is regarded as a civil matter and unless there is evidence of forced entry, it is not a crime. (Hold on, I have to go check all the windows and doors are locked). Don’t you love these little loopholes that screw those of us following the rules. God I miss my rebellious phase.

In short, if a squatter manages to occupy the house ‘legally,’ the owner of the house then must jump through a litany of legal hoops to get these people out of their house and prove that they themselves have a right to live in the property and the squatter does not.  Of course this takes time and money and in some cases, it can take people months, if not years to evict squatters from their homes. There have been some cases in England where the squatters have remained in the houses for over 20 years. By that point, I think I’d lie down and surrender and say to hell with it, take the damn house. I just couldn’t do battle for that long. And it gets worse, after 12 years of squatting, squatters can claim ownership of a property if no one else claims it. Okay, fine if it’s abandoned, then I can see my way clear to allowing people to camp out there now and then, but even so, to just say something is theirs when it’s not – well it just sounds delusional.

There are even offices and advisory services to help squatters. In London there is a group aptly called the Advisory Service for Squatters. They help squatters find empty homes, give them legal advice, tell them how to handle police, and go as far as help them maintain the property in question by advising how to set up temporary plumbing and electricity. This of course can all be found in the Squatters Handbook. Or as I like to call it, the ‘Stealing shit that isn’t yours handbook.”

Today I saw an interview with a few squatters on TV. One heavily dreadlocked woman claimed that squatters are just misunderstood. She said, and I quote, “we’re just l like anybody else living in a flat, going about our daily lives.” Um, but you’re not like everybody else, you’re not paying rent and you’re pretending where you live belongs to you. Am I the only one that is having a problem with this equation?

Then again, maybe the squatters are the smart ones. Housing prices in London are astronomical, there is a definitive housing shortage and a severe homeless problem, so why not just move in to a nice four-bedroom terrace house if no one is using it. Come to think of it, our windows are not double-glazed and this flat is like a wind tunnel. I think the King and I shall hit the streets today to find more suitable accommodation. Perhaps something in Kensington near the palace would be nice? I mean afterall the King is royalty.

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