The Tweenager and The Tomboy are desperate to go on the London Eye. I am not. I don't do heights. I have a fear of heights, falling off something very tall. I've conquered a great deal of my fears, such as having children, but heights is something I am not willing to address.
So it's decided that The Husband will take them and I will hang out with The Toddler on the South Bank. I book the tickets, cannily for 11am which just happens to coincide with The Toddler's sleep time (clever me), thus ensuring that I can sit in a trendy coffee bar, sipping latte and people watching for forty minutes or so. I can pretend that I am young, fashionable, carefree and single - albeit with pushchair.
As always, we were running late. So The Husband, The Tweenager and The Tomboy jumped in a cab and I happily strolled along the river while The Toddler fell asleep in his buggy. Plan ZZzzzz totally falling into place. Until five minutes before I reached the Eye my phone rang and it was The Husband reporting that The Tomboy had taken one look at the ride ahead and had decided that there was no way she was getting on it. Annoyed by his lack of forceful parenting, I marched down to the entrance only to be greeted by The Tomboy in tears and The Husband shrugging his shoulders. At which point The Toddler woke up, after having precisely six minutes of sleep. "Must go" trilled The Husband, and off he went towards his pod of peace, high above London and me. I waved goodbye to The Tweenager, my latte and forty five minutes of respite.
Sixteen quid later spent on juice, human statues and a carousel, I am about ready to jump into the Thames. I said fear of heights, not fear of drowning.
The Husband returns, looking considerably younger than he did this morning, and we proceed walking along the South Bank and onto Borough. I am having to give The Tomboy a piggy back as her legs utterly will absolutely not walk another step. Anybody who is savvy about this area of London will know that it is full of gorgeous eateries and chic wine bars. It is also where The Husband's desk is when his jet-set lifestyle allows him to be in the office. And, boy, doesn't he show it. His commentary is worthy of an open-top tourist bus - oh yes the food is very good in there...oooo that's where we got a free bottle of champagne...the bill in there came to over three hundred quid...must take you to that pub, the steak is amazing...
I am no longer feeling slightly sorry for The Husband. In our game of Better Deal Or No Deal, he strolls the Walk of Peace & Quiet, flips the lid on his galavanting, unveils a life and beats the wife.