Ramblings of a daddy

It's late afternoon Friday and the weekend ahead's looking pretty busy. My plan to leave work early is a non-starter and I end up leaving at the usual time. Tonight is the Christmas fayre at Corsham Primary, so I get home as quickly as I can, grab little one from nursery and go straight to the school. My daughter is instantly recognised by some of the kids and I am instantly recognised by some of the adults. I buy some raffle tickets, some cake and a tea. A little girl shows me her cake.

We queue up to see Santa Claus and are given a ticket number. I immediately imagine hearing the post office voice ("cashier number 8 please"). A litle girl shows me her ticket.

We edge closer to the grotto. Before going in, I tell my daughter that Santa will ask her what she wants for Christmas and, fearing an outrageous reply, I suggest she might like, for example, dollies. Because you like dollies, don't you, I probe. She nods. It's our turn to go in. Santa asks my daughter the inevitable question and she replies "you've got a beard". He cannot deny the existence of a (novelty) beard and asks the question again. She pauses, thinking hard, and says "dollies". I immediately feel ashamed of my priming.

We wander outside and into another building where people are queuing to have photos taken. On the spur of the moment, I decide to join the queue. As I am waiting, a woman gives me a leaflet and another approaches me with a tray of cakes. I happily take one. They're Lebanese, she tells me. I sell boxes, she continues; come and have a look when you've had your photo done. I agree.

I have my photo done with my daughter and leave the building. I completely forget about the Lebanese cakes.

The fayre is over, but daughter doesn't want to go home. Some blatant bribery later and I manage to get her into the car.

Daughter safely tucked in bed, I then switch on the laptop and somehow manage to stay awake hours after my usual bedtime, laughing at prank videos on YouTube.

I am up at 7.30 and, having had a late night, it feels like no sleep at all. I spend all morning generally faffing around. Bath. Breakfast. Faffing. Housework. Tea. More housework. More faffing. More tea. I ascribe my behaviour and mounting tiredness to late night YouTubing.

Time to go out. It's already gone 12. Time to check out a toddler-friendly cafe I've been told about. I drive towards Bath on the Batheaston bypass. I slow down to see the traffic on the turn-off. Plan B initiated; the Lansdown Park and Ride. I continue up the hill. Incredibly, I make the decision to go via Langford. Let me clarify: I have cleaned the car just a couple of days earlier and I make the decision to drive along muddy country lanes. A superb choice.

Park and Ride is full and I use the specially-provided overspill at the racecourse. The bus is packed and I want to tweet that someone standing nearby smells like a horse. I ask the bus driver if he stops--indeed, could stop--at the Park and Ride stop at the bottom of Lansdown Hill. No. Queen Square only. Great. Only an extra quarter of a mile I have to walk with a toddler then.

I arrive at the cafe and it's very homely. My order is taken by a woman with a lovely smile. A few other toddlers are there, including the standard-issue boisterous Thomas who snatches various toys from my daughter saying they're his. The parents intercept.

I order a second coffee. My daughter manages to force me into buying her a second cake.

Soon I am alone in the room with my daughter. The cafe is built into the crypt of a church and the style of doors reminds me somewhat of modern crematoriums. I can't get this out of my mind. I read various inscriptions and note the dates on one, working out the man was 25 years older than his wife. I observe the style of the language used on other plaques--"Near this place lyeth the body...", "Alfo interred..."--and I imagine how their lives might have been back then, how they died, were they happy... I am suddenly snapped out of my thinking by the smiley waitress bringing me my second coffee.

Drinks drunk and cakes caked, we leave the cafe and head into the main throng of shoppers. It's heaving. I try to take some photos of the carousel with my phone, but they're rubbish. We head back to the bus stop. Daughter tries to board the sightseeing bus. More bribery and chocolate is used to avert a tantrum. No one on the bus back to the car smells of horses.

Sunday morning. On getting dressed, I realise a top I have bought just a few days ago and worn only once has shrunk. I am not happy.

Time to go to the soft play gym in Bath. Daughter enjoys herself immensely. A standard-issue Thomas tries to snatch some toys she is playing with. The parents intercept.

An hour plus goes by and it's nearing the end of the session. Perfectly timed, my daughter says she wants to go back to the car. This is unusual behaviour and I doubt her word. We get near to the exit and daughter says she doesn't want to go back to the car. A combination of clever word play and chocolate is used to avert a tantrum.

Back at the car, we are entertained for a good minute or two by two noisy magpies and two crows trying to scare away an equally noisy jay. Daughter is fascinated.

We drive to the city farm and I am reminded of the events of fireworks night. We look at two massive pigs, some chickens, sheep and goats. We walk across a bridge and my daughter asks where the troll is. We drive home.

Back home, we have dinner at some point and watch a film. I discover my daughter has left a felt-tip pen on my bed for several hours. A massive blue circle of ink has appeared on my pristine white duvet cover where the tip was touching it.

One hour of sunshine remaining and I decide I want to drive somewhere--as yet undecided--with my daughter. We end up at Whitehall garden centre near Lacock. Turns out to be a good choice; we see Christmas displays, real reindeer, a donkey, goats, a chicken and a noisy parakeet. We watch the ice skaters and I start wishing I could skate but remember with frustration my first, and last, disastrous time I tried it.

We go to the kids play area. While daughter is happily playing, I can't resist kicking a ball around and taking a few shots at various things I have deemed "goal". A few "successes" and I am strangely hooked.

Time to go home. We have to pass the ice cream van parked right by the exit. Great. No, you can't any more ice cream today, I tell my daughter. Tears and loud indecipherable noises inevitably follow. Child psychology is used to avert a full-scale tantrum.

Back in the car, no one smelt of horses.

Single daddy Neil (follow me on Twitter: @dotnetnutty)