let me take you by the hand

Dear Marianne,


We had a lovely day out in London this half term. Sorry, no we didn’t.

The queue for train tickets was out of the ticket office and along the wall when we arrived at Tunbridge Wells Station. The first train had just the four coaches needed to accommodate the usual number of commuters, but this being half term there were a few more than the usual number of commuters. So we all squashed on to the carriage, Mike on my lap Anna on Becky’s lap, I lost track of Stan and Archie for a bit but we communicated through shouts until Tonbridge where at last they added more carriages. How difficult is this game with numbers and seats on our trains, Mike mastered it the day he got his Underground Ernie train set.
The Underground, by the way, also had a little difficulty accommodating everyone who had made it to the Big City in the half term holiday. Waiting for ten minutes for a District line train didn’t bode well, as the heaving masses of ordinary London folk, joined the throng of unhappy families with back packs and buggies and, as Anna quite rightly pointed out, shoved us beyond the yellow line.

When it eventually arrived, we rushed the train, relying on our sheer weight of numbers and the bulk of Stan bringing up the rear with a sharp edged buggy in hand, to get us all aboard. Anna and Mike promptly freaked out, I got in to an argument with a woman who wouldn’t move up the train, because she had some important bags she wanted to protect, and by the time I had a space to breathe in, I had lost contact with Becky and Archie. So the shouting started again: “Becky where are you?” “Here”, “Is Archie with you?” “Yes, I’ve got his hair!” “Where’s Craig?” “Don’t know?” “We’re getting off at South Kensington!” This I shouted at everyone, including all the strangers who were smiling at me and rather enjoying the free entertainment; I like Londoners.

If we hadn’t yet understood the monumental stupidity of our decision to go to London with all the children on a rainy day at half term, the animal like herding by security (children in luminous green jackets) as we left the train at South Kensington ensured that the penny dropped. Our family and the trillion other families who had the same rotten idea, obediently mooed and baaed the way up the steps to the underground walkway which leads to our great national museums. “This way for the Science Museum!” shouted a small child in a luminous jacket and then whispered something important in to her walky talky; I think it was “suckeerrs…” This way for the queue for the Science Museum actually, and this way for the queue for the Natural History Museum and this way for the queue, oops no, there is never a queue for the V&A what a shit Museum that is; nice café though.

Craig, who I have to say is usually three things: optimistic, decisive and calm, had unfortunately fallen apart. He joined the queue for the Science Museum, which by this time was snaking back to the gates at the tube behind us, and stared, into space. I gently pointed out to him that we were about to stand for forty minutes with five children, all by now white with hunger, to get in to a hugely crowded museum, where they would perhaps get a chance to maybe see a button they couldn’t reach, which would make a skeleton they wouldn’t be able to see, cycle on a bike they could only guess was there. It was a long sentence, but gradually he came round, and suggested a curry; hurrah the children cried.

So we had the most expensive curry of our lives, paying out for seven buffets despite the fact that Mike’s consisted of a bite of a popadum and seven coffee chocolates he charmed out of the waiter. After the curry we found a new sense of purpose, unfortunately our purposes were different, Craig wanted to try the Museums again and I wanted a long walk back to Charing Cross, with support from ice-creams and sweets, pigeons and guardsman etc.

So, we joined the queue for the Natural History Museum, and fifteen minutes later we found ourselves in hell. The building was so crowded that I longed for the space and safety of Camden Town underground station at six o clock on a Friday night. I was scared for our children, it was a dangerous place to be, and not because of T. Rex, because he wasn’t there anymore, and not because of the lifelike Dino Works, because we couldn’t get even close to that; but because of the demented parents charging around with screaming kids, determined to give them a bloody good day in bloody London if it killed them or us.

We did manage to squeeze ourselves in front of the Ant exhibit where we all marvelled at the wee things carrying leaves up and down a horizontal stick. An event I could have supplied for our children in the comfort of our own back yard, for nothing. We left after ten minutes and staggered to the nearest bench. “I want to go home”, said Mike.

The journey home was the same as going, but backwards, well you know what I mean; claustrophobic, sweaty, scary, exhausting, uncomfortable and disappointing. We felt so bad for the children that we foolishly promised extra holiday money as a form of compensation. Anna and Archie immediately took me up on this and I had to spend another hour lugging my lead heavy legs around Victoria Place shopping centre, before I could sit in a comfortable chair with nobody on my lap, and no stranger’s arse in my face.

As we dragged ourselves from the train and up the hill homewards, we experienced the first piece of light relief in eight hours. At the top of the hill, we found a Securicor van parked outside Lloyds Bank and screeching, “Help, the driver of this vehicle needs assistance…Help, the driver of this vehicle needs assistance…Help, the driver of this vehicle needs assistance!” Inside, the large driver was trying to look small in the front seat, whilst giving out reassuring smiles and thumbs up to concerned passers by. Now this was something for the whole family to enjoy, funny, cheap, entertaining. It was only Mike who didn’t enjoy the irony and he deserved a bit of fun, he’d put up with so much nonsense all day. But we should have known that the forces at work hadn’t quite finished messing with our heads, and just another minute up the road, outside the Library stood two Llamas with their keepers, seemingly advertising nothing but themselves; so now even Mikey was amused.

Rx