Geronimo!

Bezzies

We went on a journey today. Not one of those poxy X-Factor-style journeys. I’m not trying to add pseudo-intellectual depth to what was - quite literally - a train trip.

On a freezing cold day, my daughter, her "best mate evah!" and me hopped on a First Capital Connect carriage down to London, whizzed through the underground, jumped on a bus and met up with the girls.

The female throng (thong?) consisted of a couple of friends, one with a couple of teeny sprogs.

The Arctic Expeditionary Female Front

Our destination was the Union Chapel in Islington, which as well as being a working church also puts on live shows, including some rather splendid free lunchtime concerts. What with the special deal on Travelcards that got the girls there for the princely sum of £2 each, this was proving a frugal triumph.

Of course, first we had deal with the fact that as the show was at lunchtime, it could potentially impinge on...well...lunch. Our planning left a little to be desired when we stopped off for some pasta at an Italian restaurant, but realised they were still doing their breakfast menu. The smallest look of panic flashed across my girl’s face, before the wonderful waitress gave me a wink and said: “I’ll ask in the kitchen if they’ll do some pasta early for the children, shall I?”

Piney Gir and her bassist, whose sunglasses
presumably came with de-icer

So all was calm and well, and we headed to the venue, stationing ourselves two pews from the front to enjoy live music in a beautiful setting.

First up was an impressive mini-set from the wistful Herons!, whose pianist looked as though her fingers might freeze up in the cold. Then came the extraordinary voice of Mara Carlyle, with some pared-down versions of tracks from her album Floreat which made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Or maybe that was just the sub-zero temperatures, again...

Piney Gir and her No.1 Belieber

But it was the final act, Piney Gir, with her 60s Pop-infused songs, who provided something extra special.

You see, Piney was the musical guest at last month’s True Stories Told Live, the event where I spoke about my daughter. And following this, Piney sent me an email saying how much she’d enjoyed my talk, and did I think my girl would like to come and see her play at a free concert?

Piney’s latest CD was duly purchased. A critical listening phase from boy-band loving daughter ensued. I spoke of how we could go and see Piney perform and maybe even say hello and get an autograph after the gig.

And, as promised, when the show finished, before the audience was booted out in order for a wedding ceremony to take place, we nipped to the side of the stage, my daughter clutching a Sharpie pen and her treasured copy of Piney’s CD, Geronimo!

Piney recognised me, and recognised my girl from my description of her in my True Story. She beamed, charmed, chatted and signed a message, and my daughter was shy, starstruck, and thrilled.

I wondered how my daughter would cope today. I wondered if she’d be too cold, tired, or bored to sit watching three acts in a cavernous church. I wondered if she’d be too busy worrying about her next snack or meal to enjoy the actual event. I wondered if the journey would wear her out too much.

But she had a great day. And so it was that on the train on the way back my little girl announced, with suitable gravitas: “I like Piney Gir EQUALLY as much as Justin Bieber.”

Sometimes I need a battle cry to face the day. And now I’ve got a new one. I’m nicking it from Piney. Sometimes you have to leap out of the plane and step into the blue. Sometimes you have to yell: “Geronimo!”

Video is Mara Carlyle - Bowlface En Provence

Video is Piney Gir - Here's Looking At You

Flight

You know those cheap flights where you aren’t allocated a seat, so it’s a bit of a free-for-all when you pile onto the plane?
Your main priority is to grab a seat next to someone who looks a) sane b) small and c) quiet. Not the bloke with the thousand-yard-stare, the DIY haircut, and the relaxed attitude to personal hygiene. And certainly not anyone with kids - particularly babies. The potential for migraine-inducing bawling is far too great.

When we went on holiday to Spain when our daughter was about seven months old, we caught one of these flights back home, at some ungodly hour of the morning and after a lengthy airport delay.

An extremely harassed bloke plonked himself down in the seat next to us, letting out an audible sigh of relief as he looked across at my husband, noting he was a big fellow, but taller than he was wider, and therefore not likely to impinge on his personal space. But then his face fell as he clocked me. Or more importantly, the little bundle of baby in my arms.

Now I knew that our daughter was very likely to sleep for the whole journey. I also knew that she was physically too weak to cry, because of her poor muscle-tone. (Saying that, she had actually squawked quite loudly on the beach when I’d plunged her into a dinghy full of icy-cold water. But I’m not overly proud of that, so let’s move on).

But this guy didn’t know these facts. I could see he was now steeling himself for the plane journey from hell, two seats down from a screaming baby.

Two hours later, as we got to our feet, ready to get our luggage from the overhead lockers, with my daughter still a picture of peaceful, silent contentment in my arms, our fellow passenger turned to my husband and formally shook his hand.

“I would just like to say, your daughter is a perfect angel,” he told my other half. “You, sir, on the other hand, are a bloody fidget.”

Video is Johnny Kidd & The Pirates - Shakin' All Over