We always had a Christmassy outing with the children. We have continued, but sometimes I miss their youthful awe and excitement.
The train into London was packed with families. Nigel, Pascoe, Carenza and I were split up down the carriage. (Perran was arriving later.) Two toddlers, high on tic-tacs, were clambering over my knees.
Their dad said,
“We’re going to Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. It’s cost us a fortune.”
In his eyes, mingled hope and defeat. Wonderland could never match up to their anticipation.
And probably one of the kids would be sick.
If not all of them.
Our own day centred round the very grown-up play about the IRA, The Ferryman, by Jez Butterworth.
Beforehand we visited the free exhibition of Degas drawings at the National Gallery, then grabbed an Itsu.
Nigel was on map duty and we even had the experience of walking through a narrow ally full of sex shops and adult bookshops – not something we had previously included in our family Christmas outing. But apparently, the most direct route between Itsu and the Gielgud Theatre.
Then the riveting, enthralling play.
After the play, we went to Freud’s for a cocktail or two and Dan joined us. I enjoyed the banter over my virgin mojito.
On the way home on the Tube, we watched a Mummy imploring her three very young children to stop licking the train windows.
"They may be dirty."
She was clearly a master of understatement.
And I was glad after all to be missing out on the traditional finale to the Christmas outing - rushing home to wrestle weepy small children into bed.
|Carenza with the Kings Cross Christmas Tree|