Louise had her belated work Christmas Do last Thursday. After putting the boys to bed, I embraced having a few hours to myself and enjoyed something of a one-man party. I rustled up a hearty batch of oven food, chucked a couple of items of clothing on the floor without reprimand, and basked in the luxury of watching football on TV rather than hunched over my phone while The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills takes precedence. As far as I’m aware, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills is not live and can be watched on any device at any time, but it has dominated our living room almost every evening for the past six months and I feel I now know Lisa, Kyle, Dorit, and Erika on a personal level. My life was better when this wasn’t the case.

Louise texted saying she would be home around 10.30 pm, so I decided to stay up. Perhaps she’d praise me for holding the fort? I’ll just read in bed for a bit, I thought. No problem. The next thing I knew, I was startled awake by hammering on the door. I checked my phone. I’d put it on airplane mode and missed several calls. It was 1.40 am. Disorientated, I ran downstairs to see I’d left the key in the front door, locking her out. Outside, I found my wife, cold, angry, and smelling, quite strongly, of wine.

 “What the hell, Andy? I’ve been out here for an hour!”

I’d outdone myself. How does Louise go out until the small hours on a midweek night, yet I still find a way to end up in the doghouse? I’d snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. As she snored, I felt guilty and couldn’t get back to sleep. It was sub-zero temperatures, and she’d been outside for an hour? I was a terrible, idiotic husband. The following morning, Louise, looking a little jaded, admitted it had been closer to seven minutes.

I imagine she was hoping for a stress-free day but she should have known that being in your mid-thirties with two children, this is impossible. Within a few minutes of me leaving for work, a man arrived at our house to tile the kitchen (we’d both forgotten about this) and, in the afternoon, Jacob’s pre-school called to say he was unwell, and she had to trudge a mile in the sleet to pick him up. 

Fortunately, Saturday morning saw Jacob (and his mother) in better shape. All set for our annual trip to The Deep, an aquarium in Hull. There is no rest. As I was having a shower, I heard a commotion downstairs and arrived, wearing a towel, to find Joshua crying with his nose bleeding, and Jacob shouting, “Go away, silly mummy!” I learned that Jacob had, for no discernible reason, lobbed a hardback copy of Bizzy Bear: Vet’s Clinic at his brother’s face.

With blood drawn before breakfast, patience was frayed as we got in the car, and the mood further darkened somewhere near Pontefract. The boys said they were hungry, but I couldn’t find their lunchbox, and suggesting they share some raisins that had been in the glove compartment for an indefinite amount of time was met with disdain. When it transpired that the lunchbox was in the boot (a “ludicrous” place to put it) we pulled in at a service station. Some more terse words came my way to which I retaliated by going quiet and looking out of the window for the next half an hour.

As the Humber Bridge came into view, I pulled myself together; I was being oversensitive and immature. I needed some good material to break the silence so pulled out one of my go-to fun facts.

“Did you know the Humber Bridge is actually longer than the Golden Gate Bridge, Louise?”

“Oh.”

“Have I ever told you about the time my dad took me to the Humber Bridge for a day trip?”

“Yes, Andy. Several times.”

“So, boys, who’s looking forward to seeing some fish?”

“Go away, silly Daddy,” Jacob replied.

There were no spaces at The Deep, so we had to pull in at a nearby business car park. I couldn’t figure out how to use the temperamental ticket machine and a queue formed behind me, ramping up the pressure. When a middle-aged man audibly sighed, I felt my heart pounding and considered just taking the £35 hit. 

The queue to get inside was enormous with excited children bouncing around and parents exchanging flat smiles. Now Joshua has started school, we are tied to weekends and school holidays for the next 15 years, which is a difficult pill to swallow/hell. Gone are the carefree days of going to Piglet’s Farm and not having to queue up for a Tractor Ride. It’s over.

After a long wait, hangriness was looming, so decided to eat before entering the aquarium proper. In the canteen, a scowling chef was prodding some pulled pork with tongs.

“Are you open?” I asked.

“Breakfast finished at 11, pal. Hot food starts at 11.30.”

It was 11.10 am. We were in no man’s land. We could, at least, buy some pre-packaged sandwiches, he informed us. I went for a Ploughman’s but, on checking inside to find a single tomato smothered in a mountain of butter, I nearly vomited and had to discard it. On a nearby table, a girl of around three was crying and shouting, “I want to go home!”

I could empathise.

The boys had been enthusiastically talking about The Deep for days. However, by the time we got inside, they were much more interested in a small plastic basket Joshua had somehow acquired. They took a handle each and charged off into the crowds, completely ignoring the sea life. No interest whatsoever. 

They have form for this with our average Tropical World trip lasting around 12 minutes, and we gave them a heartfelt pep talk (“Mummy and Daddy have paid a lot of money for this…” etc.) by the penguins. Gladly, a stingray piqued their interest for a few minutes, and we managed to prise the basket from Joshua and marginally slow them down. Still, 45 minutes later, we were emerging from the underwater viewing tunnel, heading for the exit. It had taken twice as long to get here.

“I didn’t see any starfish,” Joshua said, which was hardly surprising given his complete lack of commitment to the cause. 

“You know what that means,” I said, sensing an opening. “We’ve got to go round again.”

And so, we did. Much, much slower. 

It just about saved the day.

The Deep x2 is a lot, though and by the time we were embroiled in the gift shop chaos that concludes all family days out, I was tired and hungry. A sitting duck, the boys smelled weakness.

“Can I have this, Daddy?” Joshua asked, holding a turtle My Little Vet set, definitely an over-the-top souvenir for two hours in an aquarium.

“Sure, son. Get whatever you want.”

Jacob opted for a giant egg which supposedly hatched a penguin chick. In the car, he started crying because he couldn’t open it. I tried to assist but couldn’t work it out and, perhaps letting the day's frustrations get the better of me, gave the egg a firm punch while Louise shook her head. Although I successfully cracked it, I also managed to cut my thumb quite badly. 

More blood and tears.

What better way to bookend a family day out?

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