I’m not at my best when it comes to dealing with sick children. Let me put that into some sort of perspective because it gives the impression that I’m handing the responsibility to the missus and carrying on as if all is tickety-boo. Actually it’s the reverse, I can’t focus on anything else to the point that things fall out of context and my bloody mind wanders into worse-case-scenario-world before being casually barraged from all sides by any manner of horror. At some point rationale will jump in to defend the poor psyche from itself, only for paranoia to remind the consciousness that, yes, it could really actually happen thus kick-starting another cycle of woe, and all of this while I try to make parmigiana.

This latest round of panic has been slowly accumulating as the boy’s barking cough entered into a fourth week. On the very day I thought that it was getting a bit better we went to a party, during which one of our friends noticed that he’d got rather hot. A thermometer revealed that he was one degree away from a trip to A&E so we gathered him up and brought him home. We monitored his fever throughout the night, he responded by coughing up his toenails and crying himself hoarse, to the point that the following morning he’d totally lost his voice.

It’s stating the bloody obvious that a child’s cry is indicative of how, even what, they’re feeling but I couldn’t have imagined how hard it is to, like, ‘parent’ without this crucial aspect of communication. You’ve no option but to just watch them, quite literally, all the time. The baby, in turn, is now reliant on being watched; all the usual distractions of toys, food and randomly-placed dangers are exchanged for monitoring the parental gaze, ensuring that they are visually accessible now that the audio has shut-down. This means that if you turn your back for a second, to prepare their food or have a little cry, you can guarantee you’ll look around to find a wide-open mouth occupying a little face that epitomises the agony of our modern world, accompanied by a tiny, whispering yell that seems louder than any of the (deafening) bands I’ve seen this year.

Mercifully all this snot and nonsense had cleared before we set off for Italy to see family and friends. Once we’re there we can relax and, ostensibly, eat and drink out until the wee hours with the little fella in tow. One evening, for example, we were sat in a restaurant until 4 am with half a dozen friends, one of them happened to be the owner of the joint and another was his wine merchant, both were keen for us to sample their fare. When the boy woke up he’d be fed, passed around, spoilt, and when he got tired we’d pop him in the pram and he’d sleep as we carried on pushing stuff into our faces.

This makes for a refreshing change, in London -or anywhere in the UK for that matter- most kids aren’t allowed in pubs/bars after, on average, 8 pm. I don’t take issue with this, for fairly obvious reasons booze/parents/babies don’t still well together and even if some parents can maintain a certain level of responsibility after a pint or two it doesn’t necessarily follow that all of them can. And that’s not factoring in the dangers presented by shitfaced revellers who shouldn’t have to be expected to play tippy-toe with a bunch of yelling kids. However, when there are children around in the evening the whole dynamic changes. People, knowingly or not, act differently and the atmosphere is much more congenial, calmer, friendlier and older generations are far more likely to be drawn into the mix adding to the convivial spirit of things.

Why this works in Italy and not the UK is because in Italy drinking isn’t confined to the singular act of ‘drinking’. For the most part it’s something to accompany lunch or dinner with colleagues, friends and family. In fact, it’s actually quite hard to just drink for the sake of itself, nine times out of ten it’ll be accompanied with some sort of complimentary foodstuff whether you asked for it or not, the most obvious example being that of Aperitivo. There are plenty of places in Italy where the accompanying hors d’oeuvres are so abundant you can skip both lunch and dinner in one fell swoop, and some of these little bites are properly delicious. Mind you, if you’re unlucky it’ll just be a dish of ready salted crisps, but even that helps deal with the nascent effects of the booze. Factor in a lack of specific licensing hours which single-handed kills the get-‘em-in-before-closing mentality and you’re far less likely to see inebriated people on the streets of Italy than in the UK. This may explain why liver disease in Italy is down by a third when compared to the UK. Having said all that British pub culture is unique and I wouldn’t have it any other way -not that I’ve a choice in the matter.

For all the joys of being able to holiday hard with a little boy there is the payoff when it comes to the travel. For the most part this particular journey was relatively straightforward; having done this a few times we’re getting the hang of best practice when it comes to travelling with a him. There is no particular formula outside of sating any concerns the boy has at any given moment, with hunger, thirst and/or fatigue being the primary suspects -all relatively easy to deal with. The bastard aspect is sleep-interruption because it’s in control of everything. Allow me to put this into some sort of context by using the return journey as an example.

Up at 7am Sunday, quick feed but no problem, the fifteen-minute walk to the bus station sends him off to sleep again -at this point I should explain that we usually get a pain-relieving lift to the airport but everyone was bollocked from the previous night, and unless you’re a banker taxis are out of the question. We wake him as we try not to wake him getting from the pram (which has to be collapsed and stowed away with all the luggage) to the bus. This goes down like a cup of cold sick, but after 30 minutes of feed/play on the bus journey he’s asleep, only to be woken at the airport as we attempt to lower him into his freshly assembled pram. The throngs of passengers and activity amuse him so we’re spared yells. Once we’ve dropped of the behemoth wheelie/suitcase thing -after having removed half of the contents because its overweight, again- we waddle to security with two seam-creaking rucksacks and a pram containing a freshly sleeping baby. This isn’t an issue because at Stanstead earlier, when he was asleep, they said it was fine to pass through, ‘no need to wake a sleeping baby’ said one officer with unaccustomed cheer… What? Oh shit, at Bergamo-Milan the pram has to be scanned separately so we have to wake him again, waahhhh etc.

By now it’s 10.30, the flight’s at 1-ish. We take a table near an eatery that serves prosecco and deliberate the latter. A couple of hours later after having eaten a sandwich and taken on the odd glass, we’re on our way to the gate. The little fella has been great, entertaining fellow passengers and generally being all smiles and squeaks, now he’s asleep we have to wake him to board the bloody plane, of course. And he doesn’t want to be on a plane at all. Nor do I for that matter.

Despite this (and a panic attack by the author) the flight back is relatively painless because we have three seats to ourselves. He wakes of his own accord just as we land, we disembark, load him into the pram that’s patiently waiting for him on the runway and take the 60’s vision-of-the-future that is the driverless rail link to the main terminal. He’s awake through customs and right onto the National Express coach because the Stanstead Express to Liverpool street isn’t working.

On the coach, its 1 pm, we’ve gained an hour in theory, he’s not just awake but really on it having taken a psychotic liking to the tray on the back of the adjacent seat. It makes a really loud ‘snap’ sound just as it opens and closes which the little fella thinks is better than anything else in the world. Of course, he’s not best pleased when we attempt to keep him clear from his new toy, ape and shit have seen each other and they’re up for it. We chuck snacks at him until he’s placated but it’s a hard hour-long journey. When we finally arrive at Stratford he is, of course, asleep and, of course, wakes when he’s re-placed in the pram after I’ve re-assembled it for the umpteenth, sodding time. We grab the rest of the luggage, nearly there, just the Overland to go and we’ll be home in less-than twenty minutes… But it’s Sunday, there is no fucking Overland.

The teeth-rattling Central Line train from Stratford requires no less than four lifts to get us onto the platform. Ten minutes later we’re in Liverpool Street with all our luggage and pram. And no step-free access. The better half takes care of the Wheelie Behemoth as I jam the two front wheels of the pram into the escalator stairs, lift up the back so its level, and up we go -it’s fine. At the top there is load of unplanned manual stairs, Jesus. As soon as I stop to contemplate our next move at least five people off their assistance, quite a shock when these things happen to a cynic. My wife takes the boy and I take the pram and we go back down for the WB which is inspiring suspicious glances.

2.30 pm, on the platform and straight on the train for the last leg home. Only ten minutes and the flight of stairs, WB, pram, and [arseholes] a sleeping baby at the other end to contend with. If we can just get him down the stairs without him waking up, we can get him right into our flat without a single step and, by our reckoning, should get at least an hour’s peace and calm… No chance.

We’re home.



In the past fortnight the resident boy has been experimenting with standing. Watching him exchange the lows of the horizontal to the lofty highs of the vertical signifies a marked change in all of our lives, and already I’ve got reservations about this new direction. In fact, I’m thinking I preferred it when he just lay there being all small and chubby.

Every waking hour, when he’s not eating or being changed (we’ll touch on that shortly) he’s either attempting self-elevation, in the process of it or stood up, wobbling. The upshot of this is that he requires constant supervision, very much to the detriment of work, writing and Unchartered 4, and its sort-of getting on my tits. It’s not as if he’s the wherewithal to stand in places where he’s not going to hurt himself either. I’ve done a bloody good job at sorting out this flat, to make it safe for the little bloke to move about as he pleases in certain places, but this standing lark has undone most of that. Now a whole new world of potentially lethal disasters has dawned and quite frankly he’s not helping by choosing to practice his standing next to objects that were once safe, and now aren’t… Yes, I’d already secured bookshelves, bought those squishy things for the corner of tables, but there are no such things for the edges of said table, its actual legs, nor are there any protective devices for the lip of a bookshelf or the rim of a chair, all the objects he uses to hoist himself upright. And once he’s there, precariously positioned with beaming grin on his yoghurt smeared face, there is always the wooden floor (laminate, quite cheap) ready to deliver the final blow.

To make matters worse, he’s now access to those precious, fetishised objects that were, until recently, literally out of reach. Remote controls, i-phones, spectacles and, in one heart-stopping incident, the handle of boiling hot mug of tea that he was slowing pulling towards himself after managing to circumnavigate a not-so strategically placed chair. Take the mornings, they used to be a time of relative peace and calm, in the past his mother or I would gather him from his cot and feed him in bed until he’d fall asleep. Now he’s up and about, stamping all over the bed, hanging off curtains and lampstands and egging himself on with screeches of delight. Er, hello, I’m trying to listen to Today.

This increased activity has also had an effect on his appetite. He’s now wolfing down grub like Man V’s Food, and when he’s not doing that -or snacking between meals- he’s evacuating his premises. I’m not going into details, not because I don’t want to upset anyone with descriptions of what I, we, have to deal with on a regular basis, I’m just sparing myself from resurrecting memories best left dead and buried, well sort of. It’d be remiss of me if I didn’t at least hint at the horrific consequences of one distinguished occurrence when, during the circumspect removal of his overflowing nappy, he decided to suddenly roll over and attempt to stand via the wall and my hair.

The incident doesn’t bode well for when he’s walking, which seems like it’ll be no more than additional potential for serious injury coupled with an improved way of distributing shit. I for one can wait.