Those little micro scooters became popular two years too late. I was 12 by the time they were the ‘must-have’ item, and far too grown-up and cool to have a super fun mini scooter to race my siblings on.
‘Ugh,’ I complained loudly when my little sister and brother got given them. ‘These are the worst. No I do not want a go. I much prefer to walk.’
I haven’t given much thought to micro scooters since (but rather buried the trauma in the deep dark place where all the unspeakable horrors of a middle-class childhood go- one day I will tell you about the time my French-speaking friend got 100% on the Year 6 French test which, obviously, was wildly unfair and unspeakably unjust), but my new next-door neighbours have them.
‘Look!’ They showed me excitedly last week. ‘We’ve got scooters!’ ‘Hmm,’ I replied warily. ‘I’m not a big scooter fan.’ ‘But look how fast you can go!’ The eldest one shouted, as she whizzed down our street. ‘Mine is pink,’ Her little sister informed me solemnly.
‘My favourite colour is pink. What is your favourite colour?’ (One of the best things about spending a disproportionate part of my day with under-10year olds is how much thought one has to give to life’s really important issues). ‘Blue,’ I replied finally. ‘It used to be purple, but I think now blue. You know,’ I continued as she stared up at me from her pink scooter. ‘There’s a whole psychology of colour. I’ll look into it for us.’ ‘Would you like a go on my scooter?’ She asked.
I was 26 before I finally let myself have a proper go on a micro scooter. Now I know exactly what I want for my 27th birthday. (Unless my parents are reading this, in which case it’s still the Reiss Peacoat- I sent you both the link last week- medium please).