Christ. Sorry. Sorrysorrysorry. I’ve been a bit rubbish at updating this week. Sorry. Don’t shout. We’ve been away to London. Notice how I say ‘been away’ rather than ‘on holiday’. That’s because we ALL went away. Me. My husband. THE KIDS.
It has been ages since we last went away and that’s largely down to three things:
- We’re shit-scared of taking our kids anywhere unfamiliar in case they don’t have chips or telly
- The last holiday we went on all got a bit stressful when my husband kind of punched a seagull. I say ‘kind of’ – he totally punched a seagull. In front of a bunch of kids. Who then started shrieking. It was a little awkward and probably not typical behaviour of visitors to the Tate St Ives but please nobody call the RSPB – in our defence we were just trying to enjoy an afternoon snack in the rooftop café when this seagull swooped in for my husband’s scone. He says he panicked, thought the bird was going for one of our kids and so punched it. I say BULLSHIT – my husband just really, really likes scones. Anyway, there were gasps from the onlookers, screams from the kids and an iffy noise coming from the seagull, who was now giving us evils from on-high and more than likely sending out some kind of silent gull-call to his mates to come and have us. I grabbed the kids, my husband grabbed his scone and we vowed never to attempt anything so civilised ever again. For the remainder of that week, whenever we fancied leaving the safety of our holiday flat, we just went and sat in the car with a Calippo instead.
So anyway, this weekend there was none of that. No birds got smacked. Nobody cuffed a sparrow. My husband didn’t punch a pigeon. In the bird world, all was calm.
In the car on the way to London however, it was a different story. We should have realised fate was laughing at us when the DVD player broke 20 minutes into the journey. And then I managed to tip milk over the only pair of jeans I had with me. Oh, and then my daughter threw a shoe out of the window on the motorway. She threw her bloody shoe out of the window. Brilliant.
The following morning and a snidey pair of cheap, plastic Croc(alike)s later we started the holiday. To summarise: our son crapped his pants when he saw the giant animatronic dinosaur at the Natural History Museum; the only thing our daughter would eat was miniature packets of Philadelphia that we robbed from the breakfast buffet; my husband and I got a bit over-excited at the very fact there was a Pret A Manger and a Starbucks on the same street (London hey? City of DREAMS. Ask for a decaf latte or a superfood salad in the sticks and they slap you) and, oh yeah, my kid pissed into a Sprite bottle in an underground car park.
You know, it’s a longish story and I won’t make you re-live it but let’s just say what the Holiday Inn car park lacks in toilets, it makes up for in CCTV cameras. Whereas at home I’d discreetly direct my son to the nearest bush, in this case there was nowhere to piddle in private except for in the car itself. Hence the Sprite bottle. And you know what, I would have been so smug about my sheer resourcefulness if only things gone a bit awry. A boy’s bits and a bottleneck do not a happy combination make*. Ever seen a pee misfire and spray upwards? No? Well there’s a CCTV camera operator somewhere in South Kensington who has.
* if ever a phrase is going to alert the social services, it’s that one