I am currently on the way back from London after a few days in the capital celebrating my birthday with Emma and the F-Bomb. It’s ironic that London has loads for Toddlers to see and do but it’s accessibility is lacking, don’t even dare take a pushchair.
Only the major tube stations even dare to have lifts or any accessibility so your stuck with one parent carrying the pushchair up the stairs and the other one walking slowly up the stairs/escalators with the Ankle-biter , much to the bemusement of Londoners whose average pace of of life seems to be so fast that they appear extremely rude – or maybe they just are rude. I think they’re just rude.
I’m a firm believer in that people who have kids accept that all kids were toddlers once. That does not apply on the Northern Line. Tuts and sighs make up the soundtrack triumphantly broadcast by a plethora of arseholes who have had their journey delayed by all of 16 seconds.
On a different note don’t even get me started on Fruit Shoots, it would have been easier to buy a gram of Cocaine in Central London than a Blackcurrant Fruit Shoot. Apparently London toddlers have massive biceps by the age of five due to only being able to drink out of one litre Volvic bottles. I’m sure that they were available somewhere in the city but three attempts to find any came up short.
Hamleys held all the appeal of a shit in a slow cooker to be honest and Emma and I were dreading how much this was going to cost. You know how much? Zero, not a penny. Basically seven floors of fun and toys leads to an indecisive child not settling on a toy to take home and deciding she didn’t want anything. Beautiful. Still it was 70 minutes of my life I am never getting back.
Flo is currently yawning her head of on the last stage of the trip and practically begging for her bed and it’s only 4pm.
I’ve I feeling that Emma and I may just spend ten minutes in silence tonight with a cup of Tea / Gin to get over the noise of the city and a whiny toddler.