Chuff-chuff-chuffed with Fat Controller
MY son has been obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine since he was a one year old – aka for three-quarters of his existence.
I don’t just mean that he enjoys watching the programme. I am not using the word “obsessed” lightly. Thomas is his life.
Albie knows his narrow gauges from his steam engines, a diesel box cab from a tram, and what buffers and flatbeds are.
His passion and knowledge is in-depth, extensive and apparently going nowhere, despite how much I hear about things in early childhood just being short phases that they’ll grow out of before you know it.
And so, last week we went to Thomas Land for his fourth birthday. As a special surprise, he would meet The Fat Controller while he was there, and I was very worried about it.
The Fat Controller runs the whole railway... he’s basically God on the island of Sodor, and far more important than that in Albie’s eyes.
The problem is, as a family, we do not do well with meeting our heroes.
My mum once plucked up the BIGDAY courage to approach Barbra Streisand in an airport, leaned in to say how much she admired her, and headbutted her.
I was once at a work event and found myself in the same room as Ronnie Barker.
The person I was with – who knew how much I loved him – convinced me I had to take this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to talk to him or I would regret it for the rest of my life. He was standing alone, so I wobbled up and began by apologising, because he must be so bored by this, but I just had to tell him that he was brilliant, so
talented, and to thank him for all the amazing work he had done. It was a lengthy, breathless monologue. When I eventually ran out of steam, Ronnie Barker averted his eyes to over my head. “I’m looking for my wife,” he said, walking off. It was same story, different day, when I met Geri Halliwell – and you can’t say I wasn’t aiming a bit more, shall we say realistically there, can you? She’d been – like all normal people – my favourite Spice Girl... but I’d also bought all her solo material, and listened to it.
Then I grew up (ish) and got sent to interview her for a magazine I was working on – we were going to spend the day together, ie definitely about to become best friends.
Spoiler: we did not become best friends. She was publicising her second autobiography, and on the way home I opened my copy to read the tender inscription she had crafted for me. It read “Polly, Geri.”
And so, as the fruit of my loins prepared to meet his Streisand/ Barker/Halliwell I was terrified for him. My genes are a curse, obviously, but now he was about to discover to what extent, and at such a young age.
What actually happened was so much worse. It was perfect. Albie’s face lit up as soon as he laid eyes on the – very kind – Fat Controller. Every minute in his company was magic. It couldn’t have gone better in any way, and Albie could not have been happier.
In other words, his life has peaked on his fourth birthday. It’s all downhill from here, kid.