Dad You Suck: And other things my children tell me. Tim Dowling

book launch – there will be refreshments, though, and, um, a bit of carol singing.’

      ‘Oh no!’ screams the youngest, throwing himself to the floor.

      ‘It’ll be fun!’ I say.

      We are late, threading our way up Piccadilly through crowds of pedestrians with shopping bags. I have foolishly driven into central London and left the car in a car park whose charges took my breath away.

      ‘Why is there singing at a book party?’ asks the middle one.

      ‘Well, the book’s a collection of hymns and carols, so I guess they thought it would be appropriate to sing hymns and carols.’

      ‘Hymns? You didn’t say that before!’

      ‘Exactly where is this thing happening?’ asks the oldest.

      ‘In a church,’ I say.

      They all stop walking.

      ‘Oh my God,’ says the middle one.

      ‘Singing hymns in a church,’ says the oldest. ‘That is basically church.’

      ‘You said we were going to a party!’ screams the youngest, his eyeballs shining with fury. ‘And you’re taking us to church!’

      ‘But there will be refreshments,’ I say.

      There are no refreshments. The youngest slumps with his forehead against the pew in front, staring at the floor. The oldest seems mildly impressed that one of the readers is Ian Hislop, whom he recognizes from Have I Got News for You. The middle one begins to sing along to the carols in spite of himself, while I repeat interesting facts I have gleaned from a pamphlet I found on my seat. ‘This church was designed by Christopher Wren,’ I whisper. For the moment, all is calm.

      Afterwards I can think only about how much the car park is costing. The youngest one vanishes. The oldest drags the middle one away by the arm. ‘I’m going to get him to say “Ian Hislop” in a loud voice when Ian Hislop goes by.’

      ‘Don’t do that,’ I say. ‘This is a church. William Blake was baptized here.’

      ‘Who’s Ian Hislop?’ asks the middle one.

      After ten minutes of searching I finally find the youngest one by the doors.

      ‘Let’s go, Dad,’ he says, grabbing my hand.

      ‘We need the other two,’ I say, thinking about the car park.

      ‘Where are they?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ I try to walk against the tide of people leaving, but I can’t move. Then I spot the pair of them, standing on a pew near the aisle. The middle one has a beatific expression on his face. He tilts back his head, opens his mouth wide and clearly pronounces the words ‘Ian Hislop’. In the crowd I can just see Ian Hislop’s unmistakable head, looking this way, looking that way.

      This is my Valentine’s Day gift to my wife: a romantic long weekend at home for one. I am taking the children away for a few days so she can work and sleep and go to the cinema with people who are not me. I left her to make all the arrangements, right down to the taxi at the other end, but sitting on the Stansted Express with our bags crushing my feet, I still take some time to congratulate myself.

      I have enough experience of the Stansted Express to know that it doesn’t deserve the second part of its name. Even now it is crawling through North London, pausing for long periods, the drawn-out silences punctuated by incomprehensible apologies. It doesn’t matter, I think, because we are so incredibly early. If this journey takes twice as long as it’s meant to, we will still be at the airport before check-in opens. I look at my children, all staring into tiny screens, their faces alight with eerie concentration. There is, unusually, so little adrenaline in my system that I fall into a gentle sleep.

      I am awoken by a sudden lack of forward momentum. As I open my eyes the lights go out and the air conditioning ceases to whir. Don’t worry, I think. We are still so very, very early. After ten minutes the PA system buzzes to life. ‘Sorry for the delay, ladies and gentlemen,’ says a voice. ‘Unfortunately, we have hit somebody, an individual who was intending to commit suicide.’ I look at the oldest, who is sitting across from me and staring into his lap while tinny music leaks from his ears. I look at the youngest one, who is watching what the oldest has described as an ‘amazingly inappropriate’ episode of Family Guy on his brother’s iPod, and laughing quietly. I look at the middle one, who is looking at me.

      ‘Did you hear that?’ he says.

      ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Don’t tell the other two.’ In the seat in front of us, a passenger is trying to explain the situation to a German couple, but they don’t seem to get it. With the power off, the carriage quickly turns chilly.

      Eventually, in response to a quizzical look from the oldest, I take a notepad from my bag and write, ‘Someone jumped in front of the train’ on it. He removes his earphones and watches policemen wander up and down the track. The other passengers conduct themselves with seemly reserve, talking in hushed tones into mobiles. There is no trouble when the snack trolley immediately runs out of everything.

      After an hour it becomes apparent that we will not be moving for at least another hour. I ring my wife to ask, almost in a whisper, about the possibility of other flights, if necessary to other airports.

      ‘There’s one at six-thirty to Munich,’ she says. ‘If München is Munich. It is, isn’t it?’

      ‘Well, I’d always thought so,’ I say, but it occurs to me that I once believed that Bayreuth was just an alternative spelling for Beirut. ‘Now I’m not sure.’

      The youngest one suddenly laughs out loud. He still has headphones on, and he is still watching Family Guy. His brother prods him in the shin.

      ‘Do you actually even know what’s going on?’ he says. The youngest looks up.

      ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘A poltergeist comes and Stewie gets sucked into a portal.’

      The man in front of us tells the Germans that this sort of thing happens once or twice a year. In fact, I discover later, this is the fourth ‘fatality’ on the Stansted line in two months. The full sadness of it struck me only later in the evening, back home nine hours after setting off. Only then did I remember the conductor walking into our silent carriage to ask the trolley man for a coffee for the driver.

      Now I think of it, the term ‘trial and error’ is a bit misleading when applied to fatherhood, because one is rarely in a position to adapt in response to mistakes. You can’t just stop doing things because they keep going wrong; you’re more or less required to carry on. You take your children to a restaurant, and it ends badly. A month later you try again, and it goes badly again. Over the long term you may begin to notice incremental improvements in the outcomes, but this is more to do with your children getting older than anything you’re doing.

      My wife’s book group – of which she is a founder member – meets monthly in various locations, including, occasionally, our kitchen. The last time this happened I was away, so I’m not certain how the children and I are to be accommodated.

      ‘What happens to us?’ I ask while my wife arranges cheeses on a plate.

      ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Just stay out of the kitchen, that’s all. And don’t let them shout swearwords on the stairs. Or fight. I don’t want anyone running in covered in blood.’

      When the women of the book club begin to arrive, I assemble all three boys in the sitting room.

      ‘Put your shoes on,’ I say. ‘We’re going out.’ I take them to the Thai restaurant over the road. At my insistence, we order starters none of us has tried before. We chat about school, sport, politics and YouTube videos we’ve seen of people falling off things. The children, to my quiet astonishment, comport themselves with uncharacteristic maturity. They are polite. They are open-minded about some of the stranger dishes. They do not bicker, or complain, or knock