The one about trains, plays and awkward-o-chiles

• By Alison
• 26 February, 2010
• 11 Comments

Half term holiday is a time of gay abandon, fun filled days and freedom.

Or should be.

In reality, our half term holiday was a week long agony of torrential rain which trapped us in a tiny house with two sick children who got on each other’s nerves so much that we had to separate them. From me.

So we were delighted at the chance to get out of the house on Friday to go into Southbank and see a play aimed at children called “The scribe who wouldn’t scribble” which my friend had organised for her two kids and mine.

The rain didn’t care that we had planned a day out. Or maybe it did care – and took pleasure in beating down even harder. Whatever devious plot the stratus has in mind, it certainly succeeded in starting our day off with the feeling of damp squibs, and we only needed to go one street to meet our friends and get drenched.

The plan was to have lunch at their house and then catch the train at 20 past one. It was a good plan. We arrived at their house at quarter to twelve, and lunch was nearly ready. Things were organised, running on schedule and the children were in high spirits.

At least – three of them were. The fourth – the youngest – was having a “moment”. She was tired from all the late nights of a holiday and being demanding. She kept shouting orders at her mother who wisely decided to ignore her.

Lunch was moderately uneventful, save for the random and constant screams of the youngest, as she kept up the tirade and demanded to be hand fed, like some kind of goat.

Despite her attempts at diversion, we were ready to leave the house well before time – the walk to the station would take about 10 minutes, plus some time to buy tickets. The children were all coated up and dashing about the house in a state of hyper over excitement.

Then disaster struck. The three eldest ran into the downstairs toilet and locked the door. And then the door stayed locked. Resolutely, immovably, totally locked.

So there we were – standing in the hallway, talking through the louvre doors that lead to the tiny under-stair bathroom which is disguised as a cupboard. They are half width doors that lock in the centre with a slide latch. And all their 8 year old (and one “almost” 6 year old) might cannot move the slide latch at all. 

With their overloaded excitement gland on pure tickle, they had tried to run back out the doors without unlatching them. The full weight of three girls moving at high speed from a standing start with about half a foot’s worth of acceleration has forced the doors semi open while still locked, bending the slide latch in the middle into a permanent state of lockedness.

With the latch opening attempts an obvious failure, the next step is to pass a screwdriver in and see if they can unscrew one side of the latch. The only problem with this is that the only place I can get the screwdriver in is at the top of the door, and none of them are tall enough to reach that. So I have to drop a potentially lethal weapon in on top of three girls who are probably silly (and curious) enough to all be looking up.

The screwdriver drop goes smoothly, and the unscrewing begins. And then it stops.

“It’s not the right kind of screwdriver. We need one without the crossy bit.”

I look to my friend, M – and she heads off to rummage in the shed again, finally coming back with the right kind. Another dangerous screwdriver handover happens without injury, and my daughter – Miss Trouble Pants is the denominated unscrewer.

It’s not to be however. The screws are too painted over and stiff for an eight year old to get loose. We finally give up. The only avenue left is busting the door down.

We get them to turn their backs on the door as we attempt to pull the doors far enough open from the top to make a gap in the middle big enough to wedge our hands into, then pull it forward until the wood splinters. I am expecting great shards of wood to fly out into all concerned, pinking metal fixtures with lethal force.

While it pinches our hands, there are no other injuries – the doors pull open bending the latch further until it finally parts company with the housing and the doors are open.

The girls are free!

And our train? Amazingly – NOT missed!

We dashed to the station and made the train, then got to the theatre with plenty of time to spare.

There was a slight moment of confusion as the play started off in Hebrew – we hadn’t realised the jewish connection. But while the main story revolved around three jewish letters – Samehk, Pe and Resh and their message to the errant scribe, the Hebrew language part was shortlived and they sang and acted in English. It was very good and raised some questions from the girls about what they’d seen. The letters were not the most interesting part of it – they were more intrigued by the different headgear worn in the audience. 

Unfortunately I was woefully equipped to reply with anything more detailed than “it’s part of their culture and religion”, I promised to look into it with them.

We thought a cafe would be a good idea after the play, but the rain – it came down. And it kept coming. The walkway near where we were was all uncovered, so we decided that an exploratory trek along the front would just end up sodden, and might not even provide coffee.

So we dashed for the station and piled back on a train.

This is where it gets fun.

My girls are typical girls. They fight, they squabble, they misbehave, they disobey. Like any other kid. But on this trip home, they were angels. Picture this – I am standing on one side of the aisle chatting with my two angels, while my friend M is on the other side – physically trying to restrain both of hers. The youngest is sitting still, but making a load moaning noise at frequent intervals like some crazy snooze button on the alarm. The oldest is trying her best to get away, and is shouting “I don’t want to!” and “Let me go”.

They do this to her the WHOLE way home.

It was like travelling with the beasts of Bodmin. There are two of them – who knew? You do, now.

And M – my dear friend – looked like she was ready to unravel as we got off. The promised cafe had to wait, since she would not and could not reward her little beasts for that little performance.

But she and I have a coffee in the pipes. We deserve it. SHE most of all, deserves it. Actually, I think vodka might be what she needs! Not for her – for them!

And so that was half term. Thank God school has gone back!

Photo credit: Telemudcat