At regular intervals during the year, this child-averse man is tested to the extreme; they call it the school holidays. As the birds rise, the unlucky kid saddled with you as a Godfather is dumped on your doorstep.
A quick “see ya!” from the Mother Ship and the squeal of burning rubber suggests she has the better of the bargain as the bleary-eyed kid looks up at you for guidance – who me? About A Boy was fiction for Christ’s sake!
Cutting deeply into my leisure time to accommodate The Chosen One there had been threats of another arrival from over the Pennines to join him. By an Act of God this was averted at the last minute; one’s a challenge, two and it’s Prozac and the Dyson for the day.
Soon The Chosen One was in position for his preferred version of an activity day, plugged in and oblivious to my existence in an instant, grateful for my extreme generosity in switching the heating on.
“You got a bird coming round later?” he asked disbelieving that I had warmed the house for him. I ignored him as best I could and sought out caffeine.
Studying the internet to seek out things to do so that I might unplug him, slowing down his progress to glowing in the dark in the process, I had drawn a blank.
The shocking truth of being a “responsible adult – even for a day – is that you need Wonga.com to get you through. Following George Osborne’s lead, I sought the austerity approach.
We were off walking and not just around the new shopping mall to find a Big Mac; Bolton Abbey we were bound for and a six-mile hike with cakes promised if we both stayed out of the River Wharfe.
I unhooked him from his various leads and a video ceasefire was agreed over the Middle East; it was a gloriously sunny day and the great outdoors was calling.
He looked at me in a quizzical manner wondering how his mother could have subjected him to such a fate as I bundled him into the car. In a flash he was again displaying more leads than an intensive care bed.
When you drive a kid anywhere does it strike you that, in their own world, they must travel by the speed of light?
“No we are not ****ing there yet!” I advised soothingly. I glanced an upright finger out of the corner of my eye but chose the route of tolerance and forgiveness.
As I handed over my £8 to park the car courtesy of the Devonshire Estate, I was tempted to ask if this included lunch with a wash and a valet; the budget deficit had started to rise.
We headed to our starting point amongst a thronging crowd of stressed out looking parents and grandparents.
“My leg hurts!” said Harry, unimpressed when I pointed out we had only gone two hundred yards. “I’ve not been out for three years, it’s all right for you tossing it off at home without a proper job like my Mum says!” he wailed.
It had the makings of a long walk and an RAF search for an abandoned 11 year-old. I would live in the woods till his Mum forgave me.
We were headed for Barden Bridge or as I had renamed it – Big Al’s Bridge – largely due to the big man’s utter hatred of the steep steps each year we make our beer pilgrimage.
Not long into the walk and we’d stumbled across a rare species – lesser spotted Yummy Mummy – resulting in a dig in my back from an embarrassed godson and a weary shake of his head.
“Just look pleased to be out with me you awkward little git?” I asked. He walked on shaking his head; this kid was certainly no lucky charm.
We approached The Strid, somewhat benign on this beautiful day. I warned Harry to be careful as, should he end up lost in the rapids, my subsequent ending at the hands of his mum would be far slower, bloodier and much more painful than anything ISIS could do.
Eventually, we reached Big Al’s Bridge and cake was now in sight on the homeward stretch.
I am not exaggerating that, on this short few miles, there were times I thought I would have to leave the little man as he bleated more often than the sheep; there is no future in the Marines for this one.
We made it back but I still had time to humiliate myself. Having “held it” for the entire walk it was Tinkle Time. As Harry waited patiently for me to wash my hands he could not believe it as I mistook the paper towel dispenser for the drier.
I rubbed my hands to no avail as no air came forth; I tried rubbing faster yet still no blowing and so I banged on the casing to the startled looks from other occupants as a man came alongside me to the correct machine and thar she blew!
Things you have to do to get a blow in the country.
Recuperation was instant via a barrage of chocolate drink and cake although he left enough to feed a homeless man for a week. It was time to head back as I was now charged with repairing his bike for Day Two of our bonding week.
Having survived the woods I sensed the lack of my Father’s engineering pedigree may yet present more danger. The blind leading the innocent and most probably into the canal head first.
As it turned out, it was touch and go whether the bike ended up in the recycling yard. Fortunately, Counsellor Chris – who does actually know about bikes – was on hand to assist, bribed by my homemade mushroom soup and the promise of escaping the wife for a while.
We had prepared the rusty contraption as best we could but if The Strid had not got him, the Leeds Liverpool Canal looked a good second bet. As I rose wearily to contemplate Day Two, the phone rang. It was Power Mum.
“E’s not coming!” she shrieked rather brusquely in her native tongue not yet having slipped into corporate speak for the day “…got the shits…must ‘ve been those chips you cooked ‘im. Shoulda teken ‘im to chippie you tight arse!”
Shits my backside I thought! One look out of the window at a few frosty fields and he’d pulled a sickie and the duvet over in an instant. I brewed another coffee, turned down the heating, packed away the cycling gear and my wallet breathed a sigh of relief.
Knowing how contagious kids are I looked up the Ebola and Zika virus symptoms and promptly downed a handful of Paracetamol and wrapped myself in my duvet too, hot water bottle at my chest.
Radio 4 on and all threats of kids arriving gone; the day had just turned a corner.
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