First of April today and this fool took a thirteen month old on a flight to Manchester. Actually, it transpired not to be such a ridiculous quest. As mentioned before, my roots are in the North, and my family is based in Manchester. As I have two glorious school-free weeks ahead of me, the boy and I are going to spend some time visiting ma famille.
The husband dropped us off at Gatwick. We travel light. I pack a wardrobe of small, black, lycra garments (much less exciting than they sound). Dexter's kit is all miniature man clothes anyway. My sister has two young children, so all the baby kit is still knocking around. My mum is more of a product junkie than I am, so I basically take a toothbrush in my washbag.
Travelling alone with a small person seems to be the way to do it anyway. I first flew up North with the boy (singlehandedly) when he was seven weeks old. I was treated like a slightly jollier, curvier and poorer version of Victoria Beckham, with people falling over themselves to help this poor tiny female with a newborn strapped to her front.
People were equally kind today, with the added bonus of being able to push the significantly larger baby round in the trusty Maclaren, pretty much until I stepped on the plane.
The boy and I ended up sitting amongst a twenty-strong hen party. He was very well-behaved, and they were very impressed I managed to juggle Dexter, his books and his blanket, and a complimentary tiny bottle of Pinot: months of practice.
The boy was charm personified - appropriately sleepy/smiley as required. The plane landing must have jiggled him around a bit, as he managed to fill his nappy just as we hit the runway. The plane cleared pretty quickly...