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Back into London this morning for another show, our almost annual tradition of taking the kids to see Father Christmas (the play) at the Lyric Hammersmith. We’d only been able to get tickets for the 9.30am showing when wed booked (weeks ago) so it was an early start, but we got into town quickly and easily and actually arrived before the theatre opened.
We might be arriving at a point where trips are no longer guaranteed to be fraught and exhausting and make us wish we’d never left London. This weekend has been very busy and we’re all a bit ill and tired, but it feels like we had fun, rather than feeling like we’ve been run over by a steam roller.
Ernie was just upset that Father Christmas didn’t give him anything, which to be fair, he has done on the last two occasions he’s seen him. As the play was wrapping up and Santa was giving his dog and cat their gifts, Ernie was plaintively saying, “Ernie’s present?” over and over again. But he took the lack of gift on the chin.
We went to the Westfield for lunch and to do some Christmas shopping, but it was so early that the shops weren’t even open yet. It was strange to be back in our old stomping ground and to see what had changed in the two and a half years since we left. Phoebe recognised the playground on Shepherd’s Bush Green which was quite impressive. Personally I find it hard to believe we ever lived there. And I lived there for twelve years.
That must have been some other guy.
My son likes to go under beds and tables to do his poos (in his nappy- he’s not a monster). He never admits he is poking though. He wants it to be secret. And I understand that impetus. My own life has been blighted by the fact that I really need complete privacy and no interruptions if I am going to expel waste efficiently. I realised recently that part of my problem with going to music gigs or night clubs was that the toilets were always packed and so it was very hard to wee in privacy and even if you get a cubicle then cleanliness is far from ideal. Were my lonely young adult nights mainly down to a desire to micturate without observation?
Tonight Ernie was under the kitchen table, suspiciously quiet. “Are you doing a poo, Ernie?” I asked. He held up his hand towards me like I was a paparazzi that he was trying to avoid and said, “No, I’m fine.” He was 100% doing a poo as well. No, I’m fine. Genius.
