Train-journeys and I go so far back, they’re almost part of my family – a dubious yet fitting honour because we have a love-hate relationship and they bring out the best and worst in me.
Return journey home bore all the hallmarks of a classic bookandbed rail-crisis-cum-catastrophe with a dash of meltdown, yelling at strangers (I’m not proud to say) whose complete failure to do the very basic thing they were employed to do almost left me and toddler stranded on a platform were it not for the fact our train arrived three minutes later than scheduled and that I was able to uncharacteristically sprint across the station before hurling self and buggy onto the train just as the doors shut. They don’t show you this sh*t on the adverts do they? All very bookandbed. My past is literally littered with this sort of stuff.
Except then I didn’t have a tiny kid in tow so being shouty is not not not good. I felt miserable and grubby, as I always do if I lose my temper, regardless of the circumstances. When I arrived home, I read this piece of wonder, which is spot on and depressed me a bit more. It reminded me, as of course after today’s performance I did:
“Don’t worry that your children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you.” Robert Fulghum
Must try harder.
Once we were ON the train, though, all was lovely and we did a spot of light reading together, although I didn’t get any of my own reading done as Monkeyface stayed awake for the whole journey. (Possibly her ears were still ringing..?)
Friday’s journey home was a far better example of a journey and probably why I still keep doing this stuff with the kid. First class. Child asleep. Book finished (mine – The Sisters Brothers by Patrick de Witt) and books read (hers – Meg and Mog; Not a Box and Shark in the Park.) The only person shouting on that journey was Monkeyface, in excitement. Which is just how it should be.