My attempt to treat my wife to a relaxing spa weekend
was a disaster. As I’ve already recounted we were tired, late, I left the baby in
the car and then we were falsely accused of flushing nappies down the hotel loo.
Could we rescue things on the Sunday? Of course not.
Our baby didn’t like being in an unfamiliar room and
consequently none of us got much sleep. In the morning tempers were so short
that you’d have needed an electron microscope to see them.
We were too exhausted to enjoy the hotel and had to
deal with a grumpy baby (arguably my wife had to deal with two). They were
getting the afternoon train home whilst I stayed in town for a gig and finally
we managed to rouse ourselves into action. I suggested we cut our losses, walk
into town (the hotel was out in the countryside) and have a look around. It wasn’t
much, but at least we’d have achieved something.
Foolishly
I had assumed that the train station would be in the town centre, but as we set
off I realised it was in the other direction. It was a 15-minute walk from the
hotel and two miles from the place it was named for. Could I be blamed for this
poor town planning? I have a feeling my wife thought so.
Surely
we could pop into the station café or a pub. No we couldn’t. There was nothing
nearby. They didn’t even have a toilet. Of course my wife really needed the
toilet.
As
there was a train due in five minutes we agreed that the best course of action
would be for them to get on it, go home and try and forget this weekend had
ever happened. It was going to be an anticlimactic ending to the dampest ever squib
of a mini break.
I
checked the screen and led my family to platform 3. There were long staircases
down to all the platforms and the train was imminent so we had to carry the
pram down between us with our thankfully sleeping daughter (oh yeah, have a
sleep now, you dick). In our frazzled rush, our attempts to get the buggy down
the steps resembled Laurel and Hardy in Battleship Potemkin (I like to keep my
film references current).
The
train was pulling in. Finally some luck. Except I’d misread the screen. The
London train was on platform 5 and was just pulling out. If I could just have
done a Captain Oates.
Perhaps
I couldn’t reasonably have predicted that the train station was not in town, or
that it would have no facilities of any kind, it was possibly my fault that we
were on the wrong platform. Would we sit here and wait an hour for the next
one, with my wife holding her bladder, or were we going to have to walk back to
the hotel before almost immediately walking back to the station? Even if we got
to the hotel could we be sure we’d find a toilet that wasn’t blocked? Sadly there
was no option.
There
was a bit of a frosty silence as we trudged back to the hotel. I told my wife
that we had to stay positive and we should laugh at this. She didn’t seem in
the mood to laugh.
I
told her we would find it all funny one day. A month has passed and that day
has not yet arrived.
Next time I treat my wife to a mini-break I will do it
properly and send her on her own.
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Good to see the Liberal Democrats sticking with the winning formula of
red-haired, white, male leader. If it ain’t broke. Even Doctor Who changes his
hair when he regenerates. C’mon Liberals, give another hair colour a go. I am
not advising you to take the crazy decision of going for a different sex or
race. Branch out a bit. Maybe a formerly red-haired, white-haired white man
next?
