I don’t know what possessed us. I mean, how desperate can we have been for diversion, to take Tantruming Toddler and Edible Baby into North London’s version of Dante’s hell? And on a Saturday, no less.
Come to think of it, why would any parent of small children choose the noise and chaos of Brent Cross, when they could so easily stay at home?
But maybe that’s the real attraction. A place so loud and shambolic that one’s own rampaging toddler, and screaming baby, fade into the background, or else are lulled to sleep by the white noise echoing from the cavernous ceilings.
And, to a point, it usually works. But then, inevitably, TT gets over tired and starts screaming, and EB needs feeding, and we wonder why we ever left home.
Still, I’ve got to hand it to whoever invented this strangely addictive form of parental torture, it does tend to wear both TT and EB out, leaving Jet Lag Dad and I free to enjoy a reasonably quiet night.
One which would be infinitely more enjoyable if the two of us could just get rid of our tension headaches. Anyone for a gin and tonic?