It has been coming for weeks. Perhaps months. TV ads, shops and us – their parents are to blame. Somehow, it was around the same time that all parties started reminding our children that Santa was coming. TV ads with their news of toys and great delights. Shopping malls with their stands of chocolate and decorations. We, in desperation, started saying:

“Remember, Santa is watching you, so you have to be good!”

At 4 and 2, our girls run a constant cycle of fight/play/destroy the house/fight. We spend our time reminding them to share, shouting that they need to calm down and then screaming about getting some peace. Christmas and Santa offers an easy-to-use method of correcting bad behaviour and encouraging good behaviour. “Remember, Santa is watching you, so you have to be good!”

With Sunshine, this is working a treat. Just this evening, my wife tells me, she’s been a real Santa’s little helper. The past few weeks have seen her fetch, grab, get, and such. All those things we should really have robots for by now; instead we have children, whom we are encouraging to be independent and active by asking them to do those simple things we are too lazy (or busy writing blog posts!) to do.  She is even indulging us a little. The other evening, Sunshine picked out a story for bedtime, which was a poem. “A poem!” I said, delighted.

“What’s a poem?” she said.

“Well, it’s a story, but it’s written like a song, with rhythm and…”

“Daddy, just read it.”

Despite this dismissive command, she quite enjoyed it. The next night, I tried her on The Hunting of the Snark (a less well known Lewis Carroll verse-story). That was a disaster. My copy needs more pictures. But I digress.

The point is this indulgence of her old man’s literary tastes is thanks to Santa, as is her general helpfulness. “Remember, Santa is Watching you, so you have to be good.”

Instead of actually being good, Starlight says “Baby Alive!” (In her language, Santa – in any context, within any grouping of words, spoken with any tone – means “Get excited and tell us what you want for Christmas!”)

We spoke with Santa earlier in the year, to make sure he could get Sunshine’s preferred gifts. With six weeks before the big day, he called back. Somewhat discombobulated, he pointed out that the shops no longer had Sunshine’s number 1 toy. He was worried that they may not be back in stock and she might lose faith. But he had a plan – an expensive plan that involved the Internet and some online retailer who had the toy, but little empathy for the plight of Santa coming up to Christmas.

We apologised profusely and asked how he was getting on with Starlight’s list. “Sure, it’s a doddle!” he said. We were happy that he was happy.

But then Starlight started saying “Baby Alive!” in response to any sentence that included the word “Santa” or “Christmas”. I looked at my wife. She looked at me. We looked at Starlight. She looked at us. “Baby Alive!” she said again, and I cursed under my breath. Then she said “Shoot!” and we steered her back to saying “Baby Alive!”

Our next call to Santa was something of a surprise for him. “Baby Alive, eh?” he said. “What about her surprise? That’s all sorted you know.” Santa is incredibly organised for us. The only really organised thing in our lives. “What if I call your parents, and ask them to get Baby Alive for her?” he asked. This couldn’t work. Because Starlight wanted Baby Alive from Santa, and Santa alone.  We know this because we asked her. Three or four times. In the hope she’d forget about Baby Alive or that it had to be Santa that brought it. She did not forget. Even when we offered that it come from someone else, she said “Nooooo, from San-ta!”

“Well” said Santa. “We’ll have to see.” Santa’s great though. We got a note, sometime later, that it was sorted. The PS at the end said we should probably cut up our credit card too, as a gift to ourselves for the New Year. Santa’s not just for kids you know.

The kids are now getting quite excited, which is exciting us. Sunshine is now old enough and watched The Late Late Toy show and took it in I might add. Although, we are nervous. There is no way we can call Santa again. But she’ll be seeing all these toys and delights. You might think Starlight is too young to understand the idea of Christmas, being only 2.

When Sunshine was 2, she didn’t know who Santa was. Her mum did and had regular palpitations at the thought of him bringing Sunshine presents.  Last year, when Sunshine was 3, we got the Santa excitement. Questions about who he was and where he came from and what he did &c. Even I, furrowing my brow as I paged through a bank statement had to smile.

This year, with Sunshine at 4 and Starlight at 2, there appears to be a mentor-apprentice relationship between the two. Sunshine – the Bill Cullen of the house – sets Starlight all sorts of tasks, reminding her that she has to be good if she wants Santa to come. Starlight replies by saying “Baby Alive!” and assaulting her sister.

I know how they feel, as I recently won an iPod. There is no reason for me to tell you this, except to point out that it’s a really strangely exhilarating feeling. I’ve won 1 thing in my life before. I’ve always taken comfort in the satisfaction of a job well done. But winning something – that feeling that ostensibly, you got something for nothing, except perhaps some cosmic luck - It’s just like Christmas. That great anticipation of wrapped presents. This year, Sunshine will be able to open her own. Starlight may require help. Although, now a little bigger than last year, her tactic of attacking the package with every limb and her mouth might just work. The glee. That sense of magic. The happiness. I have learned that one cannot truly find such happiness in material things, unless one is under 10 or has an under-10 year old in the house. And we do.

But we are incredibly lucky. I know this not by imagination, but by Christmases past, when my wife and I had managed to lose 3 jobs between us in the space of a couple of years. Santa called me the other day and mentioned he could use some help gathering some toys for some other friends of his. Well, with all the help he’s given us, I couldn’t well say no. So, I looked around – all he wants is a little help – and I guess I’m going to drop something off for children with Barnardos or the Saint Vincent de Paul

“Daddy! Is today the party?” asks Sunshine as she gets out of the bath, having screamed the house to its foundations over getting her hair washed.  Hours later, and now running late, I bundle the kids into the car and set off to find this party. It is in the country somewhere, where they eat their wanes as they used to say when I was a child.

It turns out I could have stayed at the party. I did not know this. I had Starlight with me too, and there hadn’t been an invitation for her. I decided she and I were going to go for a walk. When Sunshine was her age, she loved going for walks. So it’s something I’d like to try out with her. Although with Starlight, I think she would be taking me for a walk. Have you seen that Benton video on YouTube? I don’t want to compare my daughter to a dog, but I could see myself as that bedraggled man calling from the side of the frame “Starlight! StarLIGHT! STARlight! STARLIGHT! JESUS CHRIST STARLIGHT!” as innocent bystanders see a herd of sheep stampeding toward the GAA training fellows and FCA guys hiding out in the rolling hillocks of the Curragh; the sheep followed by a terrorising toddler, followed by a chubby fellow with floppy hair.

But I digress. As I drove Sunshine to her party, I worried. How would she get on? She knew many of the kids going, as they were all in her class. But would there be others she didn’t know? How would she get on with them? I’ve heard names; names I can’t tell you, to protect the innocent – but I didn’t really know these kids, and we all know how welcoming kids can be.

And she is shy, Sunshine. At home, when new people come in, she darts behind her mother or I while Starlight attempts to rifle through their pockets or jump up and down in front of them. Would Sunshine be shy at the party?

I must confess to nerves for myself also. I am the social caterpillar that never really turned into a butterfly. You will always find me chewing leaves at parties.  What do you say to someone you never met, who you are entrusting with the safety, social inclusion and entertainment of your first child? (In the end, I just asked if I could give my phone number, in case… errr, there was any… errr… trouble. I foresaw crying, but I was damned if I was going to admit to that.)

Another car pulls up at the same time as us. I am getting Sunshine out of the car (Starlight is sleeping), when the other driver – who had alighted her vehicle and seemed to look curiously toward me (obviously as she has not met me before – she knows my wife), calls out “Sunshine! How are you!”

Sunshine responds in the traditional manner, turning into me and whispering hello. I tell her to say hello properly and she does. Another little boy is getting out of the other car, so we wait. Sunshine can name him, and starts to get a bit more into the party spirit. We all walk up the drive. Every footstep for me is dread. At least Sunshine knows this boy. Hopefully he will play with her if no one else does. The door opens.

“Sunshine!” says the kindly mother on the other side. My daughter is gone. Where? Inside. I do not see her again for hours. I stutter. As the birthday boy’s mum asks if I want to come in for a coffee, I let out a random set of sounds that might be called communication, but went something like this:

“Another phone number in the car, Starlight! Asleep! Ha! I can’t phone me?” (OK, probably not this bad, but garbled enough) As the two ladies, who have greeted each other look to me, I say “I’m sorry, I can’t stay – I have another one in the car asleep – can I give you my phone number though, just in case there’s any… errrm….” She says of course, I call out the number as she writes it down and I get the hell back to town.

Starlight is fast asleep, so I run some errands. I’m surprised that Sunshine is so well socialised already!

It feels like an absolute break. From watching her sit and play on her own in the presence of other babies, to those intrepid attempts at sharing by taking every toy within reaching distance and pushing away any other infant, to reiterating the importance of sharing (but without feeling – reiterating what she’s heard from us), there seems to be this gigantic break between then and now.

She talks about her friends – the other night she was making cards for them to come to her party. “What party?” I asked. “My birthday” (her birthday was in August). I break the bad news that parties need planning. She has it planned.

“We will come in here and Mummy will make sausages and cake. You can put on some DDs (common parlance for DVD and/or CD as well as some internet things). We’ll dance over here, then play princesses. Then we’ll go in the sitting room and do a jigsaw. Starlight can’t come because she’s too small…”

There’s the tough stuff too. One day, Sunshine tells me about a friend in school who wouldn’t play with her. They had been playing together – but at some point the other girl started playing with someone else. And wouldn’t play with Sunshine.

Maybe she needs some reminding of the things you need to do for your friends:  I know you’re nice at home, but are you always nice to her? (Yes!) Sometimes you do things but don’t realise they aren’t nice to other people… (No….) Do you share? (Not always, but sometimes she takes things off me and I want them…)  Did you take a toy off of her? (A response to that is a look like I am crazy – like I just asked a 30 year old why a politician would make a promise, but not keep it.) What did she play with the other girl? (I don’t know, because they didn’t play with me. They kept moving away) Maybe it’ll be better tomorrow. (Yeah?)  Why don’t you just wait and see! (OK!) I bet it’ll all be back to normal tomorrow – or even better – all three of you will play together! (OK!) I think that’s the end of it. She seemed pepped, from the pep talk.

Then, later on: “Daddy, can you change it tomorrow?” she asks, “Change what?”

“Change it so my friend plays with me.” I gather up the bits and pieces of heart that are lying shattered around my feet “Daddy” she says “it’s OK first, but then when I am playing by myself and I get bored” she says.

Back to the car, Starlight and I drive to a car dealership, where I talk to a guy about getting some minor work done. Starlight looks at the cars, points, says “My car! My car! My car!” We go home for some lunch and goof around the house. We play Joe Duffy. She gets a real kick out of this. It goes like this:

She says “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Hey. Hey.”

I say “Hey-hey, hey, heyheyhey, hey! Sure, sure sure-sure, sure!”

She bursts into laughter – the kind they say that warms your soul. She asks where Sunshine is. I look at the clock. We are going to be late to pick Sunshine up. We didn’t even get our walk. I bundle Starlight into the car, as she laughs hysterically, and head back out to the country.

We are not late. I lift Starlight out of the car and we go in.

Everyone knows Starlight, call her by name, coo over her. I am surprised again. All these friends, so far from home. They tell me Sunshine was great – so independent, joining in and getting on with a magician and playing away. Sunshine comes into where we are and sidles up to me. She is tired. Perhaps anticlimactic after the fury of the party. I thank her hosts and tell her to do the same. She does, from behind my legs. Perhaps I am the problem here.  As we are going, they tell me again how good she was; so independent. They are amazed. So am I. But it is all I want for her.

I have never lived under the misconception that I am some kind of excellent father. I will never be “cool” or even “sound” to my children. I know this. But until I reflected on a visit to a play centre, I never really considered the option that I might just be a Bad Dad.

It was my nephew’s – my daughters’ cousin’s – birthday. They had a party booked at an indoor play centre. I was looking forward to it. Whenever we’d gone to these play centres in the past, they had been a great success. But back in those days, one child was slow, the other was in a pram and there were two of us grown ups marshalling the whole exercise.  The play centres we’ve been to had been smaller as well. They are colourful, cushioned places set on several levels, netted in to make cells that allow you to keep an eye on your child at all times.  A prison of fun, where all the laughs and climbing and sliding and jumping can be carefully controlled by ergonomically designed and safety-focused construction.

The place we go to for the party is much, much bigger. As well as the various levels, the netted play areas here are also several cells deep, making it impossible to see children in the belly of it. This – of course – is perfect for kids, who enjoy discovering the labyrinthine opportunities for laughter, climbing and slides, etc. For parents, it is hell. Leaving aside those who curiously sit reading a paper (these – I am sure – will be the “cool” and “sound” parents in years to come), there is a constant thuddery-bump-buzz of parents running toward and away from these great cells. They call to their children – demanding they make themselves seen, calling them down for their lunch, telling them off for one thing, or telling someone else off for something else. I worry about my kids fitting into this kind of bustling energy. No: I worry about me fitting into this kind of bustling energy. I try to be polite and generally maintain a calm demeanour. But seeing all these minor heart attacks and sugar-mad children makes me sweat it a little. I don’t know how I would bungle through it all, saying “Excuse me… oops, beg your pardon… ho hum” before screaming at one or both of my kids while having a minor heart attack of my own.

I turn to see how the girls are. Far from shrinking away, they were keying up. Before I can say “I’ll be here….” to Sunshine, she runs into the First Circle of this strange prison. Starlight is held up only by my taking off her coat.

I have other plans for Starlight. She and I go to the Baby Area, restricted for children aged 2 or under and their parents. We play in there for a while, until she spots Sunshine scampering across one of the higher levels of the main play area. Then she throws a tantrum until I take her out.

We go back toward that main play area that strikes such fear in my heart. There is a little ball pool right there – in front – and right in front of where the rest of us squares (adults) are sitting. Perfect. I call Sunshine over, ask her to look after her sister and try to drink a coffee with some adults. Soon, the ball pool is heaving with children, all having a good time. Some of the older ones are maybe getting a little rough.

Sunshine has started to worry me for getting too upset to soon. At home, she can be a little too quick to cry when faced with frustration, problems or a knock here and there. She doesn’t have to be tough, per se. But, as a parent, I’d want her to hold her own when she’s out there in the world. I feel a Bad Dad when she gets upset over small things, because I should be able to do something to stop it; but nothing I have tried has worked.  Put her in a netted box filled with plastic balls and it’s a completely different story. A boy throws a ball at her. He must be 2 or 3 years older than her. And he chucks it right at her – at her face – no accident or mishap.  I was heading to the frame, going to check on her and bring her out if she was upset. I started thinking (to be honest) of dragging him out through one of the slanted diamond shapes described by the netting. On my approach, I saw the look in her face. It was withering. She was staring right at him. The boy, who had caught her eye froze; after a few seconds, he looks away with nervous difficulty, then carries on. Sunshine, aloof, takes herself up with collapsing down into the balls, laughing as she goes. I really have no idea what these kids are like when without us.

Starlight meanwhile is darting in and out of this pool of balls. She sees her moment – as I turn in fear of the look on my 4 year old daughter’s face – and darts down a sort of corridor and up some steps or stairs or  blocks or something. She is gone. She is gone! Suddenly, I understand all those people who said “I turned away for a second – literally a second – and he/she was gone”. Before, I said “What kind of parents don’t have a child radar on at all times?!” Now I have two that are mobile, I realise the magical child radar I had was dependent on one being too slow to get away and the other being in a pram or crawling. Starlight’s backside passes by my cheek on the other side of netting. It is like Alien, when the baby alien is mucking about on the spaceship, making everyone nervous.  “Starlight, come on!  That’s for big girls and boys. Come on! Get back down here! Good girl, come on, good girl” She looks me square in the face, and says “No.” She might as well have said “Bad Dad”, then she is off, up another set of square cushioned steps to an even higher level.

I prepare – all Baywatch meets Boys from the Blackstuff – to tear off my shoes and go up after her. But there is a sign stating that parents are forbidden on the play frames. Why are we all so in thrall to signs like these? I cannot break the rule to capture a child that is laughing her head off as she climbs higher and higher on what is essentially a pile of cushions, held in by netting (i.e. perfectly safe). If I were asked to explain what I was doing, how could I say I was rescuing a child who could be advertising the place, such is her glee?

I walk around, under and through the frames and nets, gawking through the netting that is holding all these children within the belly of this great industrial playing machine.  I bump into other parents doing the same. We eye each other up and down – judging each other – did you let your child run in there? Where’s your child radar?

I send Sunshine in after Starlight. Moments (which feel like those minutes which feel like millennia) later, the two reappear. Starlight is still refusing to come down from the netted frame. She is peering down at me, laughing. No: mocking, as I shake. I am reminded of the passage in a book I once read, where a child describes the older, male protagonist as “Like a fiery elephant”. That is me, stampeding around, impeded by those forbidding signs. I am taking off my shoes and hang them all if they want to stop me or complain. But thank Christ someone mentions food. Surely she will come down now.

And she does. We make our way to the little room set aside for the party. Greeted by an employee who has been ravaged and jaded by the work; underneath her cowboy hat and novelty waistcoat, her tired eyes tot up the number of children, her cracked voice debriefs the parents. She has doubled in age to 32 in perhaps 6 months of working here. All of a sudden, she bursts into life, cheering and smiling and calling out the shots – what’s going to happen and when. Like the teacher who was always fun until you crossed the line and you discovered he/she was a psychopath. Being a Bad Dad, I step back toward the door, with no concern for an escape path that would include rescuing my two children before fleeing the scene.  They have proven themselves tougher than me. They will be fine, I tell myself. I wonder if I can remember how to pray.

The girl brings in their food.  Then – to really make it a party – she puts on something like music. Really, it is the dum-dum-chookashing-dum sound with some poor woman who neeeeeds lurrrve or don’t neeeeed that kind of lurrve that you hear between ads for furniture shops and mobile phones (as I said, not a “cool” dad). The girls look at me. They know what music is – or at least they know what the music I play them is. It isn’t this. As a Bad Dad, I have cultivated their taste for the esoteric to some extent. They’ve gone right from Barney singing about rainbows to an eclectic mix that ranges from the Unthanks and their Bairns to Tom Waits and his broken down romances (in fairness, this road includes Stevie Wonder and Michael Jackson). I know what this means: 18 years as social outcasts until they hopefully go to college, where they will be nauseatingly popular with their “deep” and “strange” musical tastes. They shrug and go back to their chicken nuggets. Someone else calls for music that’s more “modern”. I can only imagine this would be a laptop hooked up to online clocks from around the world, announcing the time in different time zones after 7 pips and/or three beeps. Still with a woman who neeeeeds lurrrve or don’t neeeeed that kind of lurrve or somesuch.

I look at my watch. It has been 90 minutes, or thereabouts. I look at the girl in the cowboy hat and novelty waistcoat, a sort of “How do you do it?” glances. Her returning look simply says “Lightweight” before bursting back into the C-Beebies character, who invites all the kids to follow her down the stairs to get their goodie bags.

My oldest son turned 15 this year and is entering his second year of High School starting in September.  His summer consisted of visits to the shore along with a few day trips with friends, events, sleepovers… The rest of his time would be spent at home with normal daily activities.  Often, I would hear his complaints about being bored throughout the day with “nothing to do”.  Sound familiar? 

As some parents may know, the teenage years can be a tumultuous time and spending with their parent(s) may be viewed as “wasted” or “boring”….Suddenly, Dad is no longer the “SuperHero” that he once was.  Your son may not even wish for your presence in front of his friends, or better yet, nor within public view.  This can be quite disappointing.  However, being aware of the above, I was not going to let it remove my cape.   

I wanted to be conducive in keeping our bond, therefore, before he becomes too enveloped with his own friends and activities at the commencement of his school year, I figured a small change in his environment may leave a nice memory.  I too recall having the same feelings during this age, however, what I found to be most memorable were my travels to see my family overseas in Italy.  

So, I decided to take him to Italy to see some of the country, but most importantly, to meet our family. We stayed within the homes of our relatives throughout our whole trip, in which I must add that the powerful love and bond of my family is quite unique in its own way.  We went and toured throughout cities like Roma and Latina.  We went to the town of where we originated from in the mountainous Apennine region of Central Italia, then headed off to the wonderful beach town of Pescara (on the Adriatic) to conclude our father-son trip.   

Throughout our travels, I would tell him of my experiences and stories of each and every turn that I made in my life there.  I realise that most of what I had to say may not have not garnered much interest nor curiosity, however, I felt that he needed to hear it nonetheless.  There were also times that he may have found it “boring” especially if we were sitting at a table in conversation.  Grant it, my son does not speak Italian (yes, it’s my fault) so I would have to concur with his dilemma there. 

However, beneath all the layers of being a “teenager”, I felt that this particular adventure was most important for the awareness of where his roots originated.  He needed to see and understand that there is a much bigger world than what may be deemed as a repetitive day at home.  He also needed to be with our relatives who embrace and love him as a son/brother and to show him why he carries the name of my Grandfather, the Stalwart of our family. 

In retrospect, the experiences that we shared in this trip may not impact him until later.  And I am fine with this since it is only one brief moment in our lifetime.  However, even a former SuperHero can still come up with a special feat with the hopes of it one day to be added to the legend and lore that he created once upon a time…

On a week when Starlight has been diagnosed with foot and mouth and hand disease, and has to go for a hip X-Ray, my wife phones: a friend has tickets to Electric Picnic that they cannot use; will we take them? 

Last year, a good friend of mine had gone with his family. They camped and spent some good time in a special children’s area. That sounded good to me, but I had no idea how my children would react to being at a festival with me. 

Then, I realised it wouldn’t be against any real regulations to be sober during a festival. I also realised I hadn’t a clue how to pitch a tent. But then, I realised, my wife would never camp – so the tent wouldn’t be an issue. Therefore, we would be driving up and back. This meant I would be quite sober! 

So, we drove down on Saturday, arriving early afternoon, full of trepidation of what we might experience. 

The first thing I noted, as one prone to mishaps and bumbling idiocy (as regular readers will know), was the lack of signage. Electric Picnic folk could really do with making it all a bit clearer. Having taken a couple of wrong turns (which we now think could have led us in the right direction anyway), we got to a field where we parked the car about 100 yards from a guy relieving himself. 

“Daddy! Daddy!” said Sunshine “Why’s that man weeing in the field?”

“Well,” I said, “I guess there isn’t a bathroom nearby and he doesn’t have to sit down?” 

I muttered under my breath that there was every chance he’d fall down in a minute. Having parked, we unloaded our gear. Couples on all sides had hocked tents on their backs and trays of beer and grabbed bags larger than a small child, as we bumbled along with 2 children, 2 prams, blankets, wet-weather gear, the all-precious “bottles” bag, a handbag stuffed with this and that.  It felt good to go somewhere where everyone else had as much crap to unload and assemble from the car. 

We found our way to the main area by following the others – which meant we had a few wrong turns, and – much to my own chagrin – had to ask for directions once or twice. Seriously Electric Picnic guys, sort out your signage (for example: “Music this way” would help). 

Back to the parenting aspect – so there were a few comments about whether or not children should be at the Electric Picnic, all of which were targeted at us, but delivered into the ether. That said (and as I’ll get to), my belief is Electric Picnic is a perfectly suitable place for children. Also, there are some small revenges as a parent. Pushing – no – driving - a buggy through mud (not impossible to push, but required some bicep power) it was easy enough to accidentally-on-purpose splatter people with mud if they were being particularly difficult. Unfair, yes and certainly childish – but I know how Kathy Bates felt in Fried Green Tomatoes – yes you’re younger and the world is yours to conquer, but I have more insurance. 2 rather odd girls wondered why buggies didn’t have mud guards as their boots and tights got splattered. I have never experienced a festival where people worried about mud on their clothes. These are mentioned as exceptions. In most cases people were milling about, worrying not whether there were kids – and not worrying the kids either. It was all very relaxed, even tempered. 

Onwards, as we finally found the main area and went searching for the children’s section – which we learned was called “Soul Kids.” This was a marvel of a place. The first marvel was its peacefulness. You could be a million miles away from the festival itself and the people; in “Soul Kids” everything was soulful and – well – about the kids. 

The girls went straight for Fairy Crafts, where they made some fairy wings for themselves. I stayed outside – while the place was beautifully decorated with twigs and wood and sculptures and bouquets, all I could see were the twigs. You know what else had twigs? The Blair Witch Project. I should add, my wife didn’t see this at all. It was purely my own skewed imagination (and perhaps lack of parental courage, as I allowed my children to walk up the wooden path freely, as I cowered behind the wire that served as a fence, which I obviously believed would keep “her” away from me. I was prepared to scream at my wife if she attempted to use the video function on her phone, but that was about it. I saw myself apologising through a snotty nose to Sunshine’s Mom and to Starlight’s Mom, etc.) 

After they were made, the wings had to dry – this gave us a perfect opportunity to enjoy some of the other offerings in the area. 

First – and perhaps most important for us – the coffee was excellent. This was important as we knew we’d be guiding 2 kids under 5 through the melee of the outside at some point or another.

Then, there was face painting. Sunshine, very much from her grandfather’s gene pool, refused to leave the face painting until she had her hand painted also. Then, there were balloon shapes – a couple of dudes making flowers and animals and such. In the corner, a band was inviting kids up to join them – playing harmonica, maracas and such. It was really great. And free. Except for the coffee (which was excellent and cheaper than a regular high-street, brand name coffee bar), all these activities were free. The girls came away with balloon flowers, painted faces and fairy wings. We gave tips wherever we could. It felt wrong not to. 

After some time we quickly visited the toilets (for fear of the toilets outside), before heading back into the fray. 

On our way back, I managed to meet someone I hadn’t seen in about 23 years. It was quite strange, plunging me into nostalgia – I had been only a few years older than Starlight when I first met this person, and hadn’t seen them since I’d left primary school. As you can imagine, there was so much to catch up on, I just kept saying “I’m fine! How are you?!” 

Sunshine is particularly shy with the crowds, but Starlight wouldn’t be held or pushed in the buggy at all. She had to be up and out and leading the way. Toddling ahead of us, she made a sort of bee-twirl around the place. Excepting the entryways to each area, Starlight (and, when she joined her, Sunshine) walking around freely was really not a problem. We reminded them to stay close to us and once or twice physically brought them back beside us, but outside that, the punters walked around them or there was enough free space for them to walk about themselves without much stress to us.  

As a fairly corpulent fellow, I delighted in the food available. All very reasonably priced, there was something for everyone – and when we fed the kids, people were happy to accommodate us (e.g. by cutting up sausages, providing smaller portions, etc.). All we had to do was ask.

Somehow, we managed to forget to catch some gigs. There was of course music all around. We got some video of Starlight in the buggy pushing her fingers up in beat to some electronic beats. Several times, Sunshine and Starlight twirled about to the sounds of Jazz and pop and indie in the background. It was a shame that we didn’t actually catch a gig – but then, we hadn’t ear mufflers (which seemed a standard for most kids) to reduce some of the volume; something we would have to bring were we to come again. 

Then we saw the fair. Carousel, flying seats, a Ferris wheel. All that kind of stuff. In my mind, I have long lived in a broken down fairground, feeding on the things the carnies left behind. So I was dying to get my kids on a Carousel horse. It was pricey enough (at €5 each), but well worth it. Sunshine and Starlight felt it the best part of the day. 

We stopped for some coffee with a friend we had met in the Hurly Burly theatre café, where a show started, seemingly spontaneously. A lady who had just passed over my coffee was now writhing to music, as her colleagues ran and jumped into place. Our girls were ruptured; we learned the Hurly Burly was a good ship that sailed the seas, saving lost souls. They plucked one clean out of the audience, saving him with a series of phrases that ended in “I am lovely”, something the girls brought home with them. 

All in all, it was a great day, but we left at about 7pm. A couple of dead-where-they-lay drunks and some lairy types here and there (sparse enough, but we felt maybe a sign of more to come); we decided to bring the girls home. We had every intention of returning on Sunday, until Sunday came with its tired rain, a broken washing machine and a distinct inability to get ourselves organised. Still, the girls asked if we could go back and it was sad that we had to say no. I’d definitely go back – but remembering to keep an eye on them (i.e. keeping sober); bring ear mufflers; and just check the general sense of the crowd. All in all, it was perhaps the best family day out we’ve had.