Our family restaurant trip was a recipe for disaster
Going for meals in restaurants used to be so pleasant. Mrs Canavan and I would dress in our posh clothes – jeans without the holes for me, and for Mrs C the red dress that looked good on her 10 years ago before she put on weight around the hips – and we’d head out to feast on steak, drink wine, and generally have a nice time.
Since the birth of our son Wilf two years ago, however, we’ve not dined out once. Until the other week that is. It was – and I’m being upbeat with this description – a disaster.
The waitress commented on how cute Wilf was, to which I responded in hilarious fashion: ‘Yes, he takes after me’ – how she chortled. At the adjoining tables sat two couples having, until that moment, an enjoyable evening.
I had Wilf in my arms and as I sat he nonchalantly swung out his left arm and sent both wine glasses neatly set on the table flying, landing on the floor with remarkable force, sending glass spraying every which way.
The couple to our right, in their late 60s and wearing the joyless look of two people who’ve been in a relationship for a long time, audibly tutted while the man to our left bent to check his shoes hadn’t been harmed.
As I apologised profusely, the waiter ran over and, after staring at the approximately one million pieces of glass littering the floor, asked: ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, no, of course not, everything’s tickety-boo you cretin,’ I wanted to say, but didn’t, instead meekly uttering another apology.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to the other diners in conciliatory tone, as the waiter cleared away the mess. ‘We just can’t take him anywhere’.
‘We didn’t take ours anywhere,’ said the woman in her 60s. ‘We felt that if you go to a restaurant with a child it spoils the experience for others.’ She couldn’t have made her point more forcefully had she punched me in the face.
At this point Wilf suddenly made a loud grunting sound. A terrible smell wafted into the air, so much so that the man to our left grimaced and leaned forward to sniff his smoked haddock risotto.
I grabbed the nursing bag and departed, leaving Mrs Canavan having to make small talk with four people who detested us.
After walking up two flights of stairs to the toilets, then back down after realising the babychanging unit was in the disabled loos on the ground floor, I changed my son’s very full nappy, then decided I needed a wee myself.
With Wilf dangling precariously on a small plastic shelf, I emptied my bladder with my body twisted – half-facing the toilet, half-facing my son – so I could leap the length of the room and grab him should he suddenly roll over and plummet towards the floor.
However, because I wasn’t properly concentrating on what
The couple to our right audibly tutted while the man to our left checked his shoes hadn’t been harmed
I was doing, my trouser leg got a bit of a soaking. I then spent three minutes trying to dry my damp trousers under the hand-dryer.
Sweat now dripping down my face – I was still wearing the woollen coat I’d arrived in – I made it back to the table where
Mrs Canavan was looking at me furiously.
About four seconds later, Wilf decided he wasn’t happy with the surroundings and began to sob hysterically.
The couple to our right looked at us with a disdain I’d not thought previously possible. Had they been holding a machine gun, I feel sure they’d have quite happily pulled the trigger.
‘Are you ready to order?’ said a waiter, suddenly appearing on the scene.
We hadn’t even looked at the menu. Hot, very bothered, and having whatever the opposite to ‘fun’ is, I said: ‘Actually, do you mind if we don’t eat?’
I, Mrs Canavan, and our screaming, glass-smashing, nappyfilling son shuffled out in disgrace.
I didn’t look back but had I done I’m sure I would’ve seen the other diners – and probably the staff too – high-fiving, hugging and perhaps setting off celebratory fireworks.
Our family meal lasted 13 minutes. Things can only get better.