On Friday, The Four Little Seymours had a day trip. We went to London – that legendary place where the streets are made of gold, where the BFG lurks in the Queen’s garden and where everything is posh, stylish and smells of Molton Brown. (Or is it Aesop these days..?)
The night before we went, I must admit – I was a little apprehensive. Pathetic, I know. There are people who GO TO LONDON every day. They do it without thinking, and without worrying. There are even people that actually LIVE in London. Crazy.
Personally, I love London. My Other Me spends a lot of time there. The Other Me goes to shows and out to dinner, has sleek hair and wears clothes well. The other me isn’t afraid of buying drinks in a trendy bar in case the bill comes to eleventy three million pounds, because The Other Me is loaded, gregarious, carefree and savvy.
The Other Me is not real.
Anyway, London was calling The Four Little Seymours and I. The main purpose of the trip was not pleasure, but business: Boy Seymour had an M.R.I. scan at The Evelina Hospital to check out his wonky legs. This was a fairly daunting prospect in itself, let alone adding the dangers of the big city, a herd of semi-feral, unsophisticated bumpkin children and a cough-ridden Grandma E into the mix.
It was going to be a long day…
Big Seymour didn’t help. The night before we left, as I sat and contemplated our “fun day out”, he asked me not to lose any of his children. I mean, I hadn’t planned to, but we all know how confusing unfamiliarity (and stations) can be. My mind began to race with visions of a displaced Mini Seymour alone at Waterloo, a kerfuffle at Clapham Junction and Boy Seymour not Minding The Gap and whether I would then be able to hoick him out of said gap in time before he would be crushed to smithereens-rendering his M.R.I. rather obsolete.
The day dawned. We just about made it out of the house in time, and headed for the station. We were blessed as we got on an early train, and were up at Waterloo by 10.15 But Oh! That caused a furore, as we discovered that McDonald’s does not sell fries before 10.30 am. I consider that unfair. The Four Little Seymours were not amused.
But before we even got to Waterloo, it became very obvious that Boy Seymour was in show-off mood. He has done this before, three times, and so, at every opportunity, he was off. Charging ahead, arms pumping, legs almost keeping up, his little blond head scanning, recognising landmarks and his booming voice telling us all which direction to go in. Not always accurately.
On the one hand, this was encouraging, as I normally struggle to get him to hurry. It seems that when he wants to be first, his legs can work rather well. However, when you are trying to stay together in a group, and that group is spread over fifteen metres, and there are escalators and lifts and gaps and trains and strangers and The River and buses and six year-olds and Grandma and London Stuff, my eyes were on stalks. Boy Seymour found the platform he wanted, he jumped onto the escalator and led us to McDonalds, he showed the girls the viaduct we usually walk under, he ran off in search of the tacky Paddington Photo Booth that we always stop at, he introduced his sisters to The Big Lady (Mary Seacole’s statue), told Grandma all about the fountain by the river and then rushed off to play the “Who is in the Lift” game at St Thomas’ Hospital.
Consequently, we missed the turning for the Evelina.
We were in good time for his M.R.I. appointment, though, and left Grandma and Little Seymours Numbers One and Two in charge of the handful that is Mini Seymour, and off we went, into The Arctic (the very apt name for the cold scanning department) to get the job done. Boy changed into his gown, and was strapped onto the gurney and pushed into the tube. Of course, it was all dealt with very expertly by the lovely staff, and I tried to pretend, for my son’s sake, that this was no big deal. But it is a big deal! The poor little sausage was clamped down and trapped for an hour in the magic doughnut, and apart from fidgeting too much, getting a bit panicky as he was over-heating, and shouting over the noise as to whether he could squeeze the “get me out of here” button, he did marvellously well.
He was rewarded with a certificate, a sticker and a lovely Lego set, as it’s Christmas. Result!
So, the main event was over, and it was a good job done, but what next? Oh, I know! As we are in London, let’s drag everyone to The Imperial War Museum, as it’s just round the corner. And very interesting. And free.
Well, my “just round the corner” is not everyone’s “just round the corner”. Legs were getting tired by the time we made it to the museum, and Grandma E had a rest whilst The Little Seymours and I went round the World War One display. Once again, Boy was off, having seen it all before on one of our recent London hospital/museum trips, trying to get to the next thing and disappearing around every corner (and every trench), to fiddle with the guns. I didn’t want to be the shouty mother in the Imperial War Museum… but needs must. And it soon became clear that perhaps we had done enough for one day. As we left the gift shop, I am afraid that my son was doing his best impersonation of Dennis The Menace/Horrid Henry/Stiffler and being an utter arse. I had those looks from strangers as I tried to ask him, through gritted teeth, to put his coat on and behave himself.
It was a shame. Little Seymours Numbers One and Two were justly intrigued by the museum. They could have stayed longer. But Mini Seymour was just too tired and too little. And Boy had spent an hour lying still in a cage. Maybe I was asking too much.
I took pity on my posse, and we all saved our legs by getting a bus back to Waterloo. And before long, we were safely on our way out of the Big Smoke. What an adventure!
What did we learn?
1) London isn’t paved with gold. It appears to be paved rather often with grime. Which didn’t impress Number One.
2) Big Ben is still currently disappointing in its shroud of black.
3)The Imperial War Museum isn’t really suitable for six-year-olds.
4) The Four Little Seymours seem to like being country bumpkins.
5) If you trap a small boy in a tube for an hour, maybe he might be a bit crazy when he gets out, however much I might expect him not to be.
When we made it back to The Shiny Van and were about to embark on the last leg of our journey, back to The Sticks, and after Mini Seymour had asked if we were back in our country yet and then trodden in dog sh!t, and after Boy Seymour had finished his tantrum on the tarmac over which seat he had been asked to sit in, we breathed a sigh of relief and headed home to The Shed.
Not everyone’s’ cup of tea, but luckily, it seems, it is ours!
Merry Christmas, everyone!
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