Tantrums, Trains and a Wedding
When I tried to brush my toddler’s teeth this morning, he responded by headbutting me on the temple, wriggling clear and screaming at a wall. I tried to calm him down by singing “Wind the Bobbin Up” but this only served to wind him up further and he shouted in my face before bursting into inconsolable tears. All before 8 am. Approximately four minutes later, he was absolutely fine, jolly even. I was still fraught and, when I couldn’t manoeuvre his buggy to fit in the car boot, saw the appeal of screaming at a wall. I managed to get him to nursery before he knocked me out and felt relieved as I rang the doorbell. A second later, the manager, who I usually get along well with, opened the door and yelled.
“Yes, I’m here, I’m here! For god’s sake!”
Since waking up, I’d been in contact with two people and both, it would seem, hated me. Why was this? Was it my new aftershave? Louise did say I’d been over spraying and smelled like a teenager in a nightclub. The manager saw my puzzled expression and pointed behind me where an ASDA delivery driver with a chin-line beard was stood holding a box. Her wrath was intended for him. I was an innocent caught in the crossfire.
After a curt exchange with the delivery driver, the manager was apologetic, explaining he had rung the bell considerably more times than necessary. I sensed she’d had dealings with him before. I could sympathize as I have my own ASDA delivery driver nemesis; a wide-eyed chap in his twenties who, one Sunday evening, after completing his delivery and having no reason to stick around, stood inside our porch for 20 minutes showing me photos of his car on his phone. He was particularly proud of his alloy wheels, something I’d be hard-pressed to have cared less about. When he started showing me photos of his friend’s car’s alloy wheels, it was too much and I had to edge him out of the porch and slowly close the door with my knee.
I went to a university friend’s wedding in Norfolk a couple of weeks ago. Appreciating that taking your toddler to a wedding is challenging and, dare I say it, not much fun, Louise kindly encouraged me to ride solo; a last hurrah before the second baby arrives in January. The idea of a last hurrah is quite bleak, isn’t it? Surely there will be more hurrahs at some point? For my birthday, my mum and dad had generously treated me to first-class train tickets for the journey.
“There was an offer on, it only cost a quid,” my dad told me while my mum scowled at him.
This was my first-class debut and it was terrific. From Leeds to Peterborough I kicked back with my 100 Years of Leeds United book while the waitress filled up my coffee and called me sir. As I tucked into my ratatouille, I considered how pleasant it would be to be extremely wealthy. The train from Peterborough to Norwich had no first-class carriage and I was back with the minions. I was sat next to a lady who smelled faintly of piss and, five minutes after setting off, a boy of around five threw a half-full bottle of Tango at my leg, then pressed the emergency button. As the train shrieked to a halt, the conductor berated the boy and his mum, who hadn’t done much wrong in my opinion, and my time dining at the top table (albeit a small plastic one) already seemed like a distant memory.
I arrived in Norwich in the late afternoon sunshine and I was impressed; cobbled streets, olde-worlde pubs and a river winding through the city, it’s got a lot of charm. There was also a buzz about the place as Norwich had beaten Man City 3–2 the previous weekend. I’m basing this entirely on seeing one smiling man wearing a Norwich shirt. My auntie and cousins live in Norfolk so I met them and my cousin’s other halves for fish and chips, which was lovely. I was also introduced to my first cousin once removed. First cousin once removed = cousin’s baby in case you were wondering. This seems unnecessarily complicated. He’s a great little guy and didn’t headbutt me which is always a bonus.
My cousin’s partner dropped me back at Norwich station around 8 pm to meet my old university pals and their girlfriends, and we barrelled into a taxi taking us to our Air BnB, a converted farmhouse in the backend of nowhere.
“Is this alright?” our driver asked as he pulled over on a featureless country lane in near pitch blackness.
“Sure.”
After a bit of stumbling around and bizarrely tripping over an enormous pile of Newcastle United programmes from the late noughties, we found our accommodation. I hadn’t seen my pals since my own wedding over two years ago and thoroughly enjoyed talking nonsense and drinking wine in the kitchen until the small hours. It was almost like being back at university. So much so that I thought an accurate throwback to those days wouldn’t be complete without being violently sick before going to bed fully clothed.
The wedding itself was excellent. It was a glorious day and, having spent much of the last wedding I attended driving around the Yorkshire Dales trying to get our baby to sleep (he didn’t), it was nice to fully join in the jollities; catching up with old friends, drinking jaegerbombs and joining in the customary arms-around-strangers’-shoulders “Wonderwall” finale.
Our taxi picked us up around midnight and dropped us off, once again, by the side of the featureless country road in darkness. Hello, old friend. This time our navigational skills were askew and we wound up at the wrong farmhouse, my friend’s booming Glaswegian accent waking up an ageing farmer who was less than thrilled. My friend then identified a pile of the farmer’s coal as a comfortable spot for his night’s sleep, which did little to smooth things over. Gladly, the farmer didn’t reach for a shotgun and we all made it back eventually.
The journey home the following day was vile. I was in a bad way, it was lashing it down, and Sunday service meant four train changes from Norwich to Leeds. On the longest stretch, I tried to get some sleep but an American man, who was stood up despite seats being available, struck up conversation with the guy behind me and talked incredibly loudly about dogs for the duration, showing the guy pictures of dogs on his phone and talking him through what the dogs were doing in each of them. His blind assumption that everyone shared his interests reminded me of my delivery driving foe.
I arrived home sodden, broken and exhausted but was glad to get back in time for my son’s bedtime routine. If I don’t see him for a day or two, however, he doesn’t have much time for me and showed little interest in my return, shooting me a suspicious look before scampering back to Louise. When I tried to brush his teeth, he slapped me on the head and ran away, then he threw a tantrum in the bath and chucked a jug of water over my lap. Flustered, I finally got him dried, changed and ready for bed.
“That was hard work. Any ideas for when he’s like this?” I asked Louise.
“Have you tried singing “Wind the Bobbin Up”?”
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