Rainy Days
Leeds is great but, in terms of wet weather options with young children, it is limited. Aside from soft play or garden centres, you basically have two options: The Royal Armouries or Tropical World. Nearly one million people live in the city and it is, quite often, very wet, so it's not ideal.
I took the boys for their Royal Armouries debut a few weeks ago. It had been one of those Saturdays where we’d seemingly watched every episode of Blippi, built a den out of sofas (Louise’s least favourite activity), and had an ill-fated attempt at some crafts, but it was still, incredibly, only 9.30 am, and the tension was palpable. After Joshua emptied a box of tiny sequins onto the carpet, it became clear that if we spent a minute longer in the house, somebody was going to do something they’d regret.
“Right, I’ll take them out,” I said. A heroic act although, admittedly, I had half an eye on earning the desired credit to sit and watch football all afternoon. “Come on then, boys! Let’s go and see some, erm… armour?”
The Royal Armouries is a decent museum, and the boys were initially excited to see some swords and shields. However, as we examined a model depicting the Battle of Waterloo, then passed a graphic statue of a man attacking a bloody-toothed boar with a spear, I wondered whether it was appropriate for boys aged two and four. Or, more importantly, whether we could get two hours out of it. I once returned from what I’d billed as “a morning out” within half an hour because the boys refused to get out of the car at Beckett Park. Louise had just sat down with a coffee, the opening credits of The Real Housewives of Cheshire rolling.
“Really, Andy? You’re back already?”
With the boys’ attention waning, I was pleased to discover that a live Samurai demonstration was starting shortly. We headed upstairs and took our seats in a small theatre among a modest-sized audience who were sat in silence, patiently waiting.
“No! I don’t want to sit down!” Jacob shouted, making a woman near us physically jump. I tried to put him on my knee and, as he tried to wriggle free, I deeply regretted leaving his pram in the boot. It’s fine, a snack will placate him, I thought, then remembered I’d put the snacks in the bottom of the pram and felt a strong urge to punch myself in the head.
Eventually, a middle-aged man carrying a Samurai sword entered. He was wearing a kimono.
“Morning, my name is Keith,” he said (I don’t want to make any assumptions, but I don’t think he was of Japanese heritage.) He then started swiping and prodding his sword with an intense glower on his face. At one point, he strode towards us and held the sword high above his head.
“No!” Jacob screamed. “Too scary!”
Looking at Keith’s now maniacal expression, I could see his point.
“I don’t like that man, Daddy,” Joshua said, definitely loud enough for Keith to hear.
As Jacob started to cry, I picked him up, grabbed Joshua’s hand, and whisked them out of the theatre.
“Can we go home now, Daddy?” Joshua asked. We’d been in the museum for forty-five minutes. I took a scenic/considerably longer route home to pad the morning out.
We returned to Tropical World last Friday following a three-month hiatus aimed at healing the trauma of temporarily losing Joshua on our last visit. Jacob had scurried off to see some scorpions and, as I ran to catch him, Joshua just disappeared. The sheer panic when you can’t see your child is like nothing else. Instead of keeping calm, and being rational, I started tearing around the rain forest section, screaming, “Joshua! Joshua!” Red-faced, heart pounding, I explained my plight to a man who worked there and, after a quick call on his walkie-talkie, Joshua was found, safe and sound, in the meerkat house. Despite it being sub-three minutes since I’d lost him, I was genuinely close to tears when we were reunited.
Anyway, I felt like enough time had passed. We were ready to face our demons and return to Tropical World (there was also a storm on Friday and I literally couldn’t think of anything else to do.)
After faffing around with waterproofs and the pram, we arrived at the entrance, cold and wet, at 3.32 pm.
“Sorry. We stop letting people in at 3.30,” a young woman informed me.
“Aw, really? What difference does two minutes make?” I offered.
“Sorry, it’s not my decision.”
“Please? We will be rapid. Look how excited they are,” I said, aware I was becoming increasingly desperate. What is it about Tropical World that reduces me to an emotional wreck of a man?
“It’s company policy, I’m afraid. Not my decision.”
“Well, it kind of is? We could just, you know, go in?”
“Sorry, not possible. Just get here earlier next time.”
Employing a consequential-thinking technique I recommend to probation clients, I told myself that there was little to be gained from losing my temper with a council worker roughly 15 years younger than me, in front of my children, and, instead, took some deep breaths. We weren’t going to leave with a whimper, though. No chance.
“Hang on,” I asked my nemesis. “Is the gift shop still open?”
“Yes, until 4 pm.”
“Excellent. Make yourselves at home, boys.”
Undeterred by the lights being dimmed, and a lady starting to sweep the floor, we spent the next 28 minutes flicking through books, chucking bouncy balls around, slapping toy bracelets on our wrists, and creating story lines with animal figures. We had a great time. If you want to play dirty, Tropical World, I will sink to your level. Don’t you worry about that.
1-1.
Seriously, though, I really hope the weather picks up soon.
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