Dad You Suck: And other things my children tell me. Tim Dowling

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СКАЧАТЬ authority, and how much of it is the fault of the artist Jeff Koons. A light rain is falling in the park.

      ‘I actually brushed the caterpillar with the back of my hand on the way out,’ says the oldest.

      ‘What did it feel like?’ I say.

      ‘Metal,’ he says.

      For obvious reasons I prefer to do most of my child-rearing in private. I can do it in public if I have to, but it takes a lot out of me; parenting is largely a process of trial and error, and I don’t like other people seeing the error part. Frankly, I find being in public on my own stressful enough, and for that reason I am only too happy to use my children as an excuse to stay in. Unfortunately this is not always possible.

      Somewhere in my pre-Christmas clutch of invitations is one for a book launch. Although it is organized by friends of mine, I have already placed the event in a mental box marked ‘optional’. This is because I don’t know the author and because you never know how you are going to feel about going outside on a random day in the future.

      I have forgotten all about the book launch when, a few weeks hence, with my wife away in Amsterdam, one of these friends rings in order to ensure my attendance that evening.

      ‘I can’t,’ I say with what I hope sounds like dejection. ‘I mean I would, but I’ve got the kids and no one to baby-sit.’

      ‘Bring them,’ she says. Her tone hints that non-compliance is not among the available alternatives.

      ‘Really? OK, that sounds great.’

      I scroll back through my inbox to find the details. The book is called Once More with Feeling and the launch is described as ‘a festive evening of hymn and carol singing at St James’s, Piccadilly’. I may as well extend my sons an invitation to be nit-combed.

      ‘Guess what?’ I say. ‘We’re going to a party, which won’t end until past your bedtime.’

      The three of them, still in their school uniforms, stare at me from the sofa.

      ‘What sort of party?’ asks the oldest.

      ‘A book launch – there will be refreshments, though, and, um, a bit of carol singing.’

      ‘Oh no!’ screams the youngest, throwing himself to the floor.

      ‘It’ll be fun!’ I say.

      We are late, threading our way up Piccadilly through crowds of pedestrians with shopping bags. I have foolishly driven into central London and left the car in a car park whose charges took my breath away.

      ‘Why is there singing at a book party?’ asks the middle one.

      ‘Well, the book’s a collection of hymns and carols, so I guess they thought it would be appropriate to sing hymns and carols.’

      ‘Hymns? You didn’t say that before!’

      ‘Exactly where is this thing happening?’ asks the oldest.

      ‘In a church,’ I say.

      They all stop walking.

      ‘Oh my God,’ says the middle one.

      ‘Singing hymns in a church,’ says the oldest. ‘That is basically church.’

      ‘You said we were going to a party!’ screams the youngest, his eyeballs shining with fury. ‘And you’re taking us to church!’

      ‘But there will be refreshments,’ I say.

      There are no refreshments. The youngest slumps with his forehead against the pew in front, staring at the floor. The oldest seems mildly impressed that one of the readers is Ian Hislop, whom he recognizes from Have I Got News for You. The middle one begins to sing along to the carols in spite of himself, while I repeat interesting facts I have gleaned from a pamphlet I found on my seat. ‘This church was designed by Christopher Wren,’ I whisper. For the moment, all is calm.

      Afterwards I can think only about how much the car park is costing. The youngest one vanishes. The oldest drags the middle one away by the arm. ‘I’m going to get him to say “Ian Hislop” in a loud voice when Ian Hislop goes by.’

      ‘Don’t do that,’ I say. ‘This is a church. William Blake was baptized here.’

      ‘Who’s Ian Hislop?’ asks the middle one.

      After ten minutes of searching I finally find the youngest one by the doors.

      ‘Let’s go, Dad,’ he says, grabbing my hand.

      ‘We need the other two,’ I say, thinking about the car park.

      ‘Where are they?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ I try to walk against the tide of people leaving, but I can’t move. Then I spot the pair of them, standing on a pew near the aisle. The middle one has a beatific expression on his face. He tilts back his head, opens his mouth wide and clearly pronounces the words ‘Ian Hislop’. In the crowd I can just see Ian Hislop’s unmistakable head, looking this way, looking that way.

      This is my Valentine’s Day gift to my wife: a romantic long weekend at home for one. I am taking the children away for a few days so she can work and sleep and go to the cinema with people who are not me. I left her to make all the arrangements, right down to the taxi at the other end, but sitting on the Stansted Express with our bags crushing my feet, I still take some time to congratulate myself.

      I have enough experience of the Stansted Express to know that it doesn’t deserve the second part of its name. Even now it is crawling through North London, pausing for long periods, the drawn-out silences punctuated by incomprehensible apologies. It doesn’t matter, I think, because we are so incredibly early. If this journey takes twice as long as it’s meant to, we will still be at the airport before check-in opens. I look at my children, all staring into tiny screens, their faces alight with eerie concentration. There is, unusually, so little adrenaline in my system that I fall into a gentle sleep.

      I am awoken by a sudden lack of forward momentum. As I open my eyes the lights go out and the air conditioning ceases to whir. Don’t worry, I think. We are still so very, very early. After ten minutes the PA system buzzes to life. ‘Sorry for the delay, ladies and gentlemen,’ says a voice. ‘Unfortunately, we have hit somebody, an individual who was intending to commit suicide.’ I look at the oldest, who is sitting across from me and staring into his lap while tinny music leaks from his ears. I look at the youngest one, who is watching what the oldest has described as an ‘amazingly inappropriate’ episode of Family Guy on his brother’s iPod, and laughing quietly. I look at the middle one, who is looking at me.

      ‘Did you hear that?’ he says.

      ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Don’t tell the other two.’ In the seat in front of us, a passenger is trying to explain the situation to a German couple, but they don’t seem to get it. With the power off, the carriage quickly turns chilly.

      Eventually, in response to a quizzical look from the oldest, I take a notepad from my bag and write, ‘Someone jumped in front of the train’ on it. He removes his earphones and watches policemen wander up and down the track. The other passengers СКАЧАТЬ