The Nappy Incident

So where were we? Oh yes, we were packed into a car, surrounded by suitcases, leaving our old lives behind. The house had been sold, our belongings were wending their way to Goa via Columbia and everything was focussed on the future. Any misgivings had been quietly dispelled, but, although I was excited, I was also sad to be leaving my hometown and the multitude of memories that lurked around every corner. With a grin, I settled back into the seat, enjoying my last glimpses of England’s green and pleasant land, for a while at least, whilst a trio of Gameboy Advances bleeped cheerfully in the background.
The arrival at the airport was weird. Usually, travelling with the three children means things can get ever so slightly fraught as Oscar tries to throw himself on the belt with the cases, Sophie tries on 500 hundred perfumes, nearly choking everyone within 100 metres and Holly moans about the food, the flight, her embarrassing parents … This time though, there was none of that – we were all aware that this was the start of our big adventure and, as such, wanted to enjoy it as much as possible.
Once the suitcases had trundled down the conveyor belt, we walked into the departure lounge surrounded by fellow travellers, their expressions revealing the meaning of their destination – excitement if they were returning to a home or loved one, anticipation if they were starting something new and grief at leaving loved ones behind. As I scanned these unfamiliar faces, I recognised these emotions because each one was coursing through my veins along with so many more, that to examine them would have probably undone me and my priority now was supporting my family by remaining positive. I couldn’t help my feelings and I struggled to keep things under control, but luckily Giles realised that the reality of leaving was hitting me hard and knew he had to provide a distraction for my thoughts.
Giles, ever practical, realised that, at a moment like this, only two things could help – shopping and wine. So Sophie (aka Fuff) and I were dispatched to … erm … window shop whilst Giles found a table in a nearby bar/diner. We wandered through the duty free, oohing and aahing over Gucci, Prada, Versace (Fuff is so her mother’s daughter – I do feel proud of this vital aspect up her upbringing! An appreciation for the finer things – shoes, handbags, clothes can never be undervalued…) I am pleased to report that, although there was much appreciation going on we didn’t succumb to the tantalising allure of the labels. I say we, but, I’m afraid Fuff found something that she couldn’t resist … We scooted through Harrods, finding nothing much of interest in the vast array of English memorabilia, unfortunately, Fuff heard a tinny little bark and raced off to find its source. Several minutes later, we left the shop, carrying a pristine white West Highland terrier toy that barked, flipped, walked – when it had batteries. Sophie wrestled it out of its packaging, grabbed the batteries and turned to me with pleading eyes – ‘Please Mum.’ I am very sorry to report that after an exhaustive search of the entirety of Heathrow airport, we could not locate a screwdriver and the poor pooch had to remain blessedly silent for the flight.
The majority of the flight was unremarkable – wine was drunk, food poked and rejected until about an hour before landing. Oscar had turned very pale and clutching his tummy, begged to go to the toilet. Again. And again. And again. Before we removed all the carpet from the gangway, I asked the air hostess if she had anything we could give Oscar to help him, she nodded curtly, ran to the tannoy and asked ‘Is there a doctor on board?’ I had only ever heard that phrase in films, I never imagined that one day, it would be applicable to me and my family. Within seconds, a fantastic doctor appeared, assessing Oscar gently, making him giggle in spite of his obvious discomfort. He found a packet of rehydration salts and I sat outside a toilet cubicle that had been used by 500 people over the course of nine hours, for the last few minutes of the flight, trying to make Oscar drink the equivalent of salty water. Not good at all. But my concern for Oscar outweighed the stench oozing under the toilet door and the insidious progression of a damp patch on the carpet …
As with all things in life, the situation took a more drastic turn for the worse when the air hostess calmly announced that we would have to return to our seats as we were about to begin our descent into Mumbai. Oscar grabbed onto the toilet door, refusing to move from safety whilst I was filled with horror at what the person sitting in Oscar’s seat after him would find if an accident was to occur. Trying desperately to come up with a solution, we stood debating the best course of action; store cupboards were ransacked by increasingly frustrated staff until one of them victoriously held up … a nappy. Good plan I thought until I actually examined the nappy and found that it would probably fit an incontinent Barbie doll. I looked from my tearful boy to the tiny nappy and pushed into the toilet. With much flailing of limbs and adjustments, the nappy was squashed into position. I emerged from the WC, hair askew, makeup smudged, holding Oscar who was proclaiming at the top of his lungs – ‘Why Mummy? Why? I am not a baby!’ He wrestled out of my arms, sped back to his seat and spent the remainder of the flight, wriggling uncomfortably whilst sending me scathing glances.
Needless to say, despite the obvious animosity towards both myself and the nappy, I was extremely worried about my boy and wanted to get to the hotel as soon as possible. I sat the children on a trolley, with firm orders not to move one inch, whilst Giles and I collected the cases. Glancing over my shoulder, every few seconds to assess both the whereabouts of the children (hey, Mum’s rules are often made to be broken!) and Oscar’s condition, I was amazed to see my baby boy sharing a packet of sweets with his sisters, chattering happily, no sign of the pale, wan little figure of an hour previously. Torn between laughter and astonishment at his rapid recovery, I cringed as the doctor walked past, a frown marring his forehead as he obviously reviewed my parenting skills and found the medication of sugar/e numbers seriously wanting. (At this point, I should mention I didn’t give them the sweets at the airport, they were part of the booty that the children had been given by the grandparents for the journey – the children had seized the opportunity to top up their energy because my three children and plane food do not mix well – ok, at all – so sweets prevented them from certain starvation as they saw it!) Marvelling at the resilience of children and the healing properties of strawberry laces we made it through the airport into the humid Mumbai air.
Within moments we were speeding in air conditioned luxury to our hotel. The usual sequence of events occurred – pool, food, tired crying and cold beer – that was just me – never mind the children!!!
As evening fell, we dressed and travelled to our favourite restaurant ‘Sheesha’. It is an amazing place – it sits prettily on a rooftop, every table is low and seats are scattered with patterned cushions. Moroccan lanterns dangle haphazardly from the struts in the ceiling, casting diamonds of light across the tables, candles flicker in the balmy breeze and watching the sunset from the terrace is breathtaking. As Giles enjoyed a Hookah pipe, Sophie snoozed, Oscar and Holly chattered about their day, I sipped my drink and I began to feel tension that I hadn’t known was there seep slowly from my system. This was a good way to start (nappy incident notwithstanding!) and tomorrow, tomorrow we were heading for Goa, our new home …