Week 141- laddered tights, long car journeys and Total Recall...

There’s nothing more depressing that scanning through your wardrobe the night before going to a wedding to realise that you don’t have ONE item of clothing that isn’t a) skin tight to the point of stopping circulation or b) totally out of fashion as the last time you were invited to something posh was when the Spice Girls were in the charts or c) both.

In hindsight I hadn’t planned very well at all for our first family trip away together.

I thought we’d just chuck everything in the car in the morning, be out of the house by 10am, at the venue by 12pm, and have a lovely afternoon mooching round leafy Berkshire before going to the evening do.

How could I have forgotten EVERYTHING about planning to travel with a tiny baby?

So. There was the outfit crisis to start with.

I’d luckily been lent a dress by a friend. She thought it might have possibly been a long top, but, as I couldn’t squeeze into anything else, and wasn’t prepared to wear it over my maternity jeans, it would have to do.

That faff took a good part of the morning.

And then there was the packing. I have to pack for three people now. Not two. A third of whom is less than a foot tall but comes with so much paraphernalia that we could have done with a trailer.

It’s not just the nappies, the endless changes of clothes, the milk, the wipes, the spare bottles, but it’s also a doubly buggy which is basically the size of the boot of a Fiat Punto.

Two hours later, and the packing’s done.

But like clockwork, the baby then needs feeding, and I’m not talking for a couple of minutes.

I mean a life-draining length of time.

I imagine I end up looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger at the end of Total Recall when he breaks through into the oxygen starved atmosphere.

At the crack of 2pm, we’re eventually in the car to begin the two and a half hour journey to the venue.

The toasts are at 4.15pm, so we’re aware that we’re cutting it a bit fine.

I suddenly remember I haven't packed any tights. It’s one thing wearing a dress that might potentially be just a top, but it’s another doing it with mottled purple legs.

After leaving four convenience stores empty-handed, Sainsbury’s Local comes good with a pair of tights that are such a thin denier that it’s hardly worth it.

And we’re off.

Its 2.30pm, we’ll miss the toasts, but if the motorway’s clear we might make the speeches.

Half an hour up the motorway and I enquire whether Ben’s picked up the baby carrier that slots into the bottom of the pram. No. Of course it’s a no. This means that when we get there, we’ll have to carry him in our arms throughout the whole event.

So we turn round at the next junction.

OK. So we’ll probably miss the speeches. But hopefully get there in time for something to eat.

As Brighton appears on the signs again, our daughter claims she feels sick.

Two seconds later and she’s thrown up all down herself, her chair and the back of my seat. In a vain attempt to help I put my hand out to catch it. I’ve no idea what comfort that will offer but now I’ve got sick all up my arm too.

We get home. The ten second turn-around to pick up the baby carrier turns into twenty minutes as I hose her down with the shower.

And then we get back in the car.

Two and a half hours late, we eventually turn up. A super-quick change in the hotel and we’re ready.

And as we arrive at the reception, I lift the baby carrier up, the Velcro sticks to my tights, and as I pull it off, ladders appear up and down my legs. I’ve also got the mother of all colds so I’ve no idea how much we still smell of sick.

But we’re there. We’ve made it.

We’ve survived our first family trip.