Three sprogs to one parent is a logistical nightmare. Thankfully Youngest Child is willing to shop and schmooze, although these days she no longer passes as “Scotland’s Smallest Woman” since she grazes my nose.
To all the bar/security guys she shamed into apologising, sorry, you were right, she was in fact a child, but what’s a single parent to do?
However, this week, she’s back. Middle Child must be put on a train. He’s never caught the train alone and doesn’t know his Inverkeithing from his elbow. Minds-of-their-own ticket machines and barriers, platforms and multiple identical trains could whisk an innocent abroad who knows where?
Which is why you’d like to park in the station, but no. It’s dropping off only and two minutes to departure.
“S’ok. You take him. I’ll sit in the driver seat and be Scotland’s Smallest Woman again,” barks Youngest.
“No, oh, oh … OK.”
With Middle Child boarded I race back to see her, knuckles gripped white on the wheel, dispensing glares cold enough to turn the bowels of tabarded busybodies to ice.
“OK?” I ask.
“Course. Now, how about taking Scotland’s Smallest Woman to a bar?”