Some weekends are good, some comically bad; mine was both...

So, it's Friday night. Yay! Time to leg it home from work. Fling a load of stuff into the car as I'm off to a quaint fireworks display in High Littleton. Going to be a tall order to get there in time (it's on between 6 and 8 pm, I'm told), but I'm up for the challenge. Grab little miss from nursery about 5.45 pm, bundle her into the car and off we go. Creep across Bath and we're out the other side by about 6.20 pm. Good, good. Through some country lanes and we arrive about 6.35 pm. Open the door to applause. Not to us. To the bloke who let off all the fireworks. He'd just finished.

So to Saturday. It's the first Saturday of the month. Want to take my daughter to baby boppers. Haven't been there for ages. Last I heard was they had moved to Rudloe community centre. Arrive there in plenty of time. Empty building. Some voices in the kitchen. "Is baby boppers here today?", I enquire of the mature lady peeling potatoes or something. They haven't been here for months, I learn. Maybe they've moved back to Corsham, I ponder to myself. Arrive at Corsham community centre. Empty building too. Right. Let's go to the Saturday cafe at St. Aldhelm's instead. Sign says it opens at 10.00 am. Perfect; it's now about 10.10. Enter the hall in which they're getting ready to open a Christmas fayre. Cafe's not open until 10.30 am a lady tells me. Oh. Um... Luckily, a lovely lady rescues me and the even lovelier female vicar makes tea especially for me. I feel guilty and am a bit embarrassed, but it's forgotten over a chat with the same. Little missy makes a mess on the pristine tablecloth.

Tea and chat over, I walk little missy over to the supermarket for a top-up shop. She is pleasantly engaged in the activity for once and is fascinated by an elderly woman in a wheelchair talking to her. However; she--my daugher, that is--decides no shopping trip is complete without a tantrum and she throws one as I'm paying the bill.

Much of the rest of the day is a blur of household chores and checking the internet for times of a display I'm thinking of going to. I make the decision to go. I pack the buggy, a fold-up chair, some "emergency" food and drink to keep missy well-behaved throughout the evening and a scrap of paper with the number of someone I might text when I get there. We arrive in good time and I find a good-ish spot. Little miss has been 90% good so far and is alternating between telling me she "likes" and "doesn't like" fireworks. She gets fidgety and I buy five minutes of her peace with a wine gum proffered. This pattern continues for some time. I need to decide whether to text the number. It's a close call. I want to, but I have doubts. I haven't met this person before; she runs adventure days for kids and, in a response to a forum post I'd written a few days earlier asking what's out there to help single working dads like me get out and meet new people, has offered to introduce herself and a few other parents whose kids attend her groups. I know if I meet up, I'm going to find it impossible to maintain conversation when my non-multi-tasking mind is 100% occupied by little one's antics. I take the plunge. I text the number. I'm committed to staying now, even if missy starts playing up. I immediately question my decision. My phone vibrates about 10 minutes later. A text. It's my contact. She's on her way! What?! I thought she'd be already here! She's actually changed her plans and is rounding the troops on my account! I shift uncomfortably in my fold-up seat. I pop another sweet into little one's mouth. Maybe tonight will go well, I try to tell myself. I know it won't. I gaze at the view. A massive queue forms in front of the burger van. I feel my phone vibrating again. It's not a text this time. It's ringing. It's my contact. My phone somehow answers itself before it's at my ear and I can already hear speech. It's a bad signal and I just about hear her describe where she's standing and what she's wearing. I make my way. Did she say red hat, green scarf and grey coat? Oh look, that might be her with that man there. I accost the woman. It's not her. OK, as you were. Sorry, husband partner man; didn't mean it like that. I text my contact. Can't see you, I write. Send. I look up. A woman is reading a text. She immediately looks up at me and we both simulataneously realise she's her and I'm him.

Introductions all round and I forget some names immediately. The silhouettes mean I forget faces too. My contact has brought cakes for all the kids and offers me one. I gratefully accept and feel guilty I can't reciprocate because (1) I'm rubbish at baking cakes and (2) regardless of my baking skills, I haven't brought any anyway. Little miss has been good so far, but I know it won't last. I'm therefore tense and make a feeble attempt at conversation. My contact takes a photo of me and missy against the fire. It looks good, except I'm wide-eyed and dead serious looking in it. I'm sure I was smiling inside. Why does that never come through? My contact asks if I can return the favour by taking a photo of her and friends. Oh no. I love photography, but I dread using other people's cameras. I press the button. It does something, but no flash and no picture. I try again. I hold down the button this time for about five seconds and at some point in that interval, it flashes. I presume I can take my finger off now. Has it come out? Quick check by my contact confirms I have missed out a key person and the picture is, in any case, blurred. I feel like a bit of a buffoon and avoid offering a re-take as a second duff one would be excrutiatingly embarrassing. More delicious cakes are offered and I feel like I am depriving the kids.

At the suggestion of my contact, I take little one up to look at a wooden castle thing. It's dark and on a slope and I manage to slip gloriously over, caking the side of my jeans in mud. Castle exploration is brief and I bend down to get hold of my daughter's hand. She jumps up and manages to headbutt my nose. I'm momentarily stunned and my nose starts to bleed. My daughter thinks I'm playing and is laughing at me holding my nose. At that moment, my contact appears in the darkness. I blurt out something about my daughter giving me a nosebleed and immediately realise how childish it sounds, but I'm still a bit dazed.

Time ticks on and I'm sure this place was only having a bonfire. Given the type of place it is, I wouldn't expect it to have its own fireworks, I tell myself. The bonfire has died down and I start thinking about leaving. Cut my losses as little one is really playing up now and I feel like a bit of a spanner. I hear someone in the darkness saying the fireworks will be starting in a minute and I feel obliged to stay until they're over. But the fireworks don't come. My contact announces she is leaving and I now wish even more that I'd left earlier. I feel like a lingering spanner. I've barely talked to my new contact or to anyone. Just been there. Existed. I am furious with myself. I shake my head in disbelief at what's happened. But, tomorrow is another day.

Sunday morning arrives and I'm a new person again. Off to take little one to a fab gym in Bath. On the way, I notice a car letting me through a gap is being driven by a good friend of mine I haven't seen in ages. He doesn't realise it's me. I arrive at the gym early and it's every bit as great as I've been told. Daughter loves it and the place fills up with dads, kids and some yummy mummies (all wearing wedding rings, of course). I can't resist a few jumps on the trampoline myself.

Off next to Bradford-on-Avon. First stop, the toilets for little one. She's been telling me "I need a poo". We go in. Held in position, my daughter announces she doesn't need a poo. We settle for a wee and leave the premises. Off to quiz the pool and information centres for weekend toddler activities. As usual, they're sadly lacking. My daughter tells the lady in the information centre "I still need a poo".

Having toileted for a second time, we explore paths, shop windows and the riverside together. I show little one a train calling in at the station. We call in on an 18th century coffee house where harpsichord music is playing and my order is taken by a gentleman with a quill. I discover a level crossing and drive over it with a childish thrill.

Not ready to go home yet as it's still sunny, we drive to Chippenham. We find a restaurant and I order food and drinks. We go to the play area while we are waiting. Daughter wants to use the big kids area. I say no. She cries. She sees other kids holding balloons and wants one. I go to the woman giving out balloons and ask how we get one. "I think they're from the party" she tells me. I wonder to myself why she said "I think"; wouldn't she know? Daughter cries again because she can't have a balloon. This play area idea to calm the kids is counter-productive. We go back to our table to find it has squatters. I've already booked this table, I tell them. While we were in the play area, the restaurant had decided not to leave our drinks on our table, but to give our table to another family. We are quickly re-seated. Our food arrives on time. "Anything else I can get you?" comes the customary question. No, I say, then immediately realise some cutlery would be nice. A nearby family helps supply the missing items.

Armed with knife and fork, I tuck into my sausage and mash. My knife hits a pocket of air and gravy splatters over my white top. It looks bad, but I somehow find the strength to carry on. Approximately one minute later, my daughter says "I want a wee". Can it wait? "No." At the toilet, the emergency wee is just a trickle.

In post-meal mode (and post- another trickle trip to the loo for little one), we head to the Olympiad in Chippenham--my first ever visit--to find out what they've got on for toddlers. I ask the receptionist this question and feel privileged to be asked to sit down and await the arrival of someone special to take me through it. I feel so grateful, I want to tell them what lovely people they are.

The day is finally rounded off with a trip to a jazz afternoon. Jazz is often stereotyped as being for older people. Well, away with stereotypes, I say; I can report that some of the other people there today were as young as 75.

Yours,

Single daddy Neil (AKA @dotnetnutty)

ps. My nose still hurts