Paul and I love a city break, and George had been asking for a while if he could come on one with us. We finally decided it was time to let him join in.

After a bit of debate, we settled on London. Different enough to feel like an adventure, but familiar enough to ease him into city breaks before we started taking him further afield.

A weekend in the capital, just the three of us. How hard could it be?

We’d been watching Gordon Ramsay’s Netflix documentary about opening his restaurants at 22 Bishopsgate, and George had decided he wanted to eat there. We booked Bread Street Kitchen, as it felt like the most family-friendly option.

Apparently, we were easing him into city breaks with dinner at a Gordon Ramsay restaurant. He clearly had expectations.

We picked a weekend when Paul would already be working in London on the Friday, so George and I could get the train down and meet him there.

Paul spends enough time travelling for work, so meeting him there made perfect sense.

Then, on the Tuesday before we were due to go, Paul’s week went skew-whiff.

He told me he was now working in Manchester all week.

Right. So, were we all getting the train? Were we driving? We needed a plan B.

After approximately eighteen different plans, we settled on Paul driving down to do a few jobs on the way, while George and I got the train.

So, after all that, plan B was essentially plan A.

Friday: Trains, Tower Bridge and a Slightly Dramatic Arrival

On Friday, George and I got up, had breakfast, made a picnic for the train and headed to the station. After the mandatory Starbucks stop, our adventure could officially begin.

Three hours of chatting, games and sandwiches. Proper quality time with George, with nowhere else we needed to be and nothing else we needed to do.

We arrived at Euston just after twelve, ready for our first stop.

Paul wasn’t due to arrive until around four, so George and I had a few hours to explore on our own. We decided to start with Tower Bridge and the Tower of London.

We headed for the Underground to make our way there. But as we reached the bottom of the escalator, an emergency alarm started going off and the gates began closing.

Being a millennial who has lived through the world going increasingly nuts, my brain immediately went to one place: terrorist attack.

I had absolutely no idea what was happening, but George doesn’t like alarms and panics easily. My first thought was to get him out of there.

I grabbed his hand, turned straight back towards the escalator and got us up to the street as quickly as possible.

As we came out, police, fire engines and ambulances were arriving.

I kept a firm hold of George’s hand as we hurried along, trying to keep my voice calm and cheerful, while inside my head it was just: keep moving.

I didn’t know where we were heading. I just knew that wasn’t the place to be.

As we walked, I called Paul. About ten minutes earlier, I’d told him we’d arrived safely and were about to get on the Tube. If something serious was happening and he heard about it on the news, I didn’t want him worrying about where we were.

So I let him know we were safe and above ground.

Our London adventure had barely started, and I’d already had quite enough excitement for one afternoon.

Once I felt we were far enough away, we stopped for a drink and I checked my phone to find out what had happened.

From the reports I found, someone had attempted to take their own life on the tracks. Thankfully, they had survived and been taken for help.

A desperately sad reason for the alarm, and I hoped they would get the support they needed.

I’d sometimes wondered how I would react in a terrorist attack. This hadn’t been one, but in those first few moments, I hadn’t known what was happening.

Looking back, I felt quite proud of how I’d handled that uncertainty. I’d got George out and managed to keep things calm for him, even while I was scared myself.

We decided to carry on with plan A, so we headed back to the station and made our way to Tower Bridge.

With plenty more sightseeing planned for Saturday, we took the afternoon at our own pace. George was having a brilliant time.

Before heading to the Airbnb to meet Paul, we sat by the river with a slush each. After the excitement of our arrival, it was lovely to sit down and watch the world go by.

Dinner wasn’t booked until eight, and we’d all had a busy day, so once we’d met up with Paul and settled into the Airbnb, we decided an afternoon nap was in order.

As a side note, writing this blog is making me realise just how much we love a nap.

I thought I was documenting our adventures. Apparently, I’m also keeping a fairly comprehensive record of when we’ve been asleep.

We set the alarm for six, then got up, showered and got ready for dinner.

Dinner with Gordon (Well, Sort Of)

I wore a navy cut-out maxi dress with my multicoloured Gucci Marmont mini bag. George wore jeans and a Timberland T-shirt, while Paul went for a white Religion T-shirt, jeans, a Hugo Boss jacket and his Hugo Boss trainers.

We ordered an Uber and headed to the restaurant.

Once we arrived, we made our way through the lobby and into the lift.

I have never been in a lift that fast. A matter of seconds and we were on the 59th floor.

The first thing that hit me was the view.

It was a perfect summer’s evening in London, and the view across the city was absolutely outstanding.

We headed to the bar for a pre-dinner cocktail. I ordered a Wuthering Heights, a rum, pineapple and Prosecco concoction, while Paul went for an espresso martini.

Paul definitely won that round. I knew what I was ordering next.

By 8:20, our table still wasn’t ready.

When we were asked if we wanted another drink, we asked how much longer it would be. They apologised for the delay but couldn’t give us a time.

Which wasn’t particularly helpful for my drinks order.

I wanted an espresso martini, but I didn’t want it with my food. With no sign of a table, I decided to risk it anyway.

Right on cue, as my espresso martini arrived, the waitress told us our table was ready.

We were then taken to what I can only describe as the worst table in the restaurant.

The only one facing an internal wall.

Absolutely not.

We were on the 59th floor for the London skyline. If I wanted to look at a wall over dinner, I could have stayed at home.

Trying my best not to have a Karen moment, I politely explained that I wasn’t happy with the table and asked if we could sit somewhere with a view.

We headed back to the bar, only to be told shortly afterwards that another table was ready.

Second time was definitely the charm.

We were seated just in time to watch the sun setting over London and catch the last of the daylight across the city.

It was beautiful. This was the view we’d come for.

We ordered a bottle of Chardonnay for Paul and me to share, and a Diet Coke for George. It was a special occasion, after all.

To start, we shared the lobster prawn toast and beef tartare, which were both tasty. For mains, Paul and I ordered the pork chop and ribeye, while George went for the cheeseburger.

The service, however, was a bit hit or miss.

They came to take our order twice, the starters arrived before the drinks, and they forgot the ketchup for George’s burger.

None of those things is a particularly big deal on its own. But when you’re paying over £400 for a family meal, you do expect a bit more.

It felt like a chain restaurant with THE view.

Which, in all honesty, is exactly what it is.

Would we have enjoyed Gourmet Burger Kitchen just as much for a fraction of the price?

Going purely on the food and service, definitely.

But did George love dressing up and going to a fancy restaurant with his mum and dad? Did we come away with a family memory that will last a lifetime?

One hundred per cent.

We headed back to the Airbnb and went straight to bed. We had a full itinerary planned for tomorrow, and for once, none of it involved a nap.

Saturday: Science, Shopping and Some Very Tired Legs

We woke up bright and early, showered and got dressed.

I wore a navy playsuit, Birkenstocks and my Louis Vuitton Speedy. George and Paul were both in denim shorts, trainers and shirts.

Then it was straight out the door and off to Tower Hill Tube station.

Our first stop was the Science Museum, via somewhere for coffee and pastries.

And, like any good Londoner, we ended up in Pret.

We stopped at the one by South Kensington station and found a bench outside in the sunshine.

Much-needed iced coffee, croissants and a bit of people-watching. A lovely way to start the day.

Over breakfast, we reminded George that today would involve lots of walking.

Just so nobody could claim they hadn’t been warned.

Then we headed to the Science Museum, where our first stop was Wonderlab. The museum itself is free to visit, with donations appreciated, but Wonderlab is a paid exhibition.

It was packed with interactive experiments and shows, and George was straight in.

George particularly liked learning about friction on the slides. Although I’m not entirely convinced how much of that was learning about friction and how much was simply enjoying a slide.

He also loved building electrical circuits, connecting wires to make things light up and alarms ring.

Thankfully, these were alarms we were choosing to set off.

Science and maths are his favourite subjects at school. He was completely in his element.

Next, we headed to the aircraft exhibition.

Now, Paul is a bit of a plane geek.

Actually, that’s an understatement.

His degree is in aerospace engineering. He is a total plane geek, and George is following firmly in his footsteps.

I was slightly dreading this part. My interest in planes usually starts and ends with which airline is taking me on holiday.

But it turned out to be one of my highlights of the day.

Watching Paul and George light up as they talked about planes was worth every minute.

We learned about the Wright brothers, talked about Amelia Earhart and explored the race between the development of aeroplanes and airships.

Annoyingly, I even found myself getting interested.

A little side note: if George had been a girl, Amelia was on our shortlist of names. So apparently, even our baby names had an aviation connection.

We carried on exploring.

A particular highlight for me was seeing Guinevere, one of the original National Lottery machines.

Of all the things in the Science Museum, I hadn’t expected a lottery machine to take me straight back to my childhood.

But there I was, remembering Saturday nights watching Blind Date, Gladiators, Big Break and Mystic Meg with the family.

Saturday-night telly used to be an event.

Sleepovers with cousins, a takeaway, making up dance routines in the living room.

Funny how a piece of machinery I’d forgotten even existed could bring so much of it back.

One minute I was walking around a museum with my own little boy; the next, I was remembering being a child myself.

Before leaving the Science Museum, we made a quick stop in the gift shop.

The plan was to grab some lunch in Kensington, then head towards Buckingham Palace.

About three steps outside, we had our first round of:

“Mum, my legs are tired and I’m hungry.”

So much for the breakfast briefing.

Before it could escalate and derail the afternoon, I distracted him with an ice cream.

George was soon happy as Larry, walking to lunch with a 99 in hand.

Apparently, his legs still worked as long as there was ice cream involved.

We found a small pub, ordered a few small plates, a beer each for Paul and me, and a drink for George.

By then, none of us needed persuading to sit down.

We’d had a lovely morning, but now Paul’s real challenge began.

Getting me from the pub to Buckingham Palace, past Harrods and various luxury shops, without me buying a bag.

Thirteen Thousand Pounds, a Coach Sale and a Very Supportive Husband

Then we passed a preloved handbag shop.

Paul looked at me.

“Come on, you know you want to.”

An interesting approach to the challenge, but I wasn’t going to argue.

Inside was the most exquisite Louis Vuitton bag in purple and neon pink crocodile leather.

It was stunning.

My favourite LV collection ever, and I was taking a moment to appreciate it.

“How much?” Paul asked.

“Look,” I said with a smile, already knowing it was way, way, way out of our budget.

Thirteen thousand pounds.

“Maybe if we win the lottery,” he said.

One day, I will add a piece from that collection to mine. Definitely not an exotic leather version, though.

For now, looking was lovely enough.

We carried on, then spotted a sale in Coach.

I’d had my eye on the cherry denim Tabby for ages, and at £300, it suddenly felt like an absolute bargain compared with the Louis Vuitton.

“Go on, you can have it,” Paul said.

“Really?”

“Yes, go on. Get it. You’ve wanted it for ages.”

I may have a bag problem.

Paul may be an enabler.

We continued towards The Mall, with more complaints about aching legs and a bit of history along the way.

We got chatting to an American couple, who were soon laughing and joking with George.

I know I sound like a braggy mum, but he’s just one of those kids people warm to. He’ll have a conversation with anyone, and he’s genuinely funny.

After seeing Buckingham Palace, we decided to head towards the Houses of Parliament and the London Eye.

But as we made our way towards St James’s Park, George’s legs officially gave up.

He sat down in the middle of the street and, in his most serious voice, told us he couldn’t possibly carry on.

We should go on without him.

He would be fine.

Between stifled laughs, Paul and I explained that we would not be leaving our nine-year-old to fend for himself on a London street while we continued sightseeing.

After a bit of coaxing and more ice cream, we found a bench in St James’s Park and gave his apparently finished legs a rest.

Then it was on to the Houses of Parliament.

Paul’s dad had worked in local politics, so it was lovely to tell George about his grandad and have a more general chat about how the world works.

We stopped at Slug & Lettuce for a round of Fantas and another rest before heading to the London Eye.

Big Wheels and Little Memories

My dad and George had a tradition of going on big wheels wherever we visited.

We travelled a lot with my parents, and the two of them had been on them all over the world. It was their thing.

My personal favourite was Hong Kong, but going on the London Eye that day felt fitting.

It gave me a chance to think about Dad and the past twelve months.

I missed him.

This was something he would have done with George, and I was glad we were doing it.

Afterwards, we raised a glass to Dad and took turns sharing our favourite things about him.

It probably sounds a bit sentimental written down. In the moment, it felt right.

We miss him, and I love that George still hears us talk about him: the funny things, the little quirks, all the things that made him Dad.

By the time we came off the London Eye, it was definitely dinner time.

We’d already decided on a food market and had spotted some huts along the river near the London Eye, so we headed that way.

On the way, we passed a playground.

George, whose legs could not possibly take another step earlier, suddenly needed a run around.

A remarkable recovery.

We found somewhere to sit while he went off to play, and Paul and I had a moment to ourselves.

“He’s absolutely loved this, hasn’t he?” I said.

“He really has. It’s been a brilliant weekend,” Paul said.

And it had.

George had loved London. The sights, the Underground, the museums, even just bimbling around the city with his mum and dad.

We watched him happily running around the playground, despite having been practically on his deathbed from exhaustion half an hour earlier, and I couldn’t help smiling.

There are moments in family life when everything feels a bit chaotic. When someone’s tired, someone’s grumpy, and you’re wondering whether everybody actually likes each other.

And then there are moments like this.

The sun was shining, George was having the time of his life, and Paul and I were sitting there feeling rather pleased with ourselves.

For once, we were that picture-perfect family.

It doesn’t happen every day, which is probably why you notice it when it does.

We gave him another few minutes to play before persuading him that we really did need to find some dinner.

We found a fried chicken place and a hot dog place, and the food was spectacular.

Music was playing, we were by the river, and it was a perfect summer’s evening.

I was completely in my element.

Good food, Paul and George, and nowhere else I wanted to be.

This was one hundred per cent what life was about.

A £300 Fuck-Up That Nearly Happened

Our original plan had been to head towards Piccadilly Circus, mainly because we had no idea where to take a nine-year-old in London of an evening.

Instead, we decided to carry on along the South Bank.

And I’m so glad we did.

Music playing, people everywhere, little stalls to browse and the three of us just bimbling along with no particular destination in mind. One of those summer evenings you don’t want to end.

Paul and I had a beer in hand, George was happily taking everything in, and we were just enjoying being together.

At one point, we passed a street performer playing a set of homemade drums.

Now, George isn’t a fan of loud noises, and as we approached, he instinctively covered his ears.

The drummer noticed and stopped playing while we walked past.

Such a small gesture, but incredibly thoughtful. He didn’t have to do it.

We carried on wandering, listening to the music, looking at the stalls and soaking up the atmosphere.

There’s nowhere quite like London on a summer’s evening.

We’d wandered about five minutes from where we’d eaten when I let out a shriek.

“What’s up?” Paul asked.

“Did you pick up my Coach bag?”

“No,” he said, taking my drink off me. “Run. Now.”

I ran back, channelling my inner Linford Christie.

By some grace of God, it was still under the table.

My brand-new bag, left sitting there in the middle of one of the busiest bits of London.

I could not believe how lucky I’d been.

Thank you, universe.

And apparently, George wasn’t the only one whose legs could find a second wind when properly motivated.

I headed back to Paul, bag firmly in hand.

“Wow. You are beyond lucky,” he said.

He wasn’t wrong.

We decided not to dwell on the fact I’d nearly made a £300 fuck-up and carried on enjoying our evening.

The atmosphere was too good to spoil.

We wandered towards the Millennium Bridge, talking about when it first opened and the wobbling chaos that followed.

As the sun started to set, we crossed over and had a look at St Paul’s Cathedral from outside.

By then, we were all tired.

Despite the occasional dramatic announcement about his legs, George had been superb. It had been a big day, and he’d taken so much of it in his stride.

It was time to get a taxi and head back to the Airbnb.

We all slept like logs that night.

This is what happens when we don’t get our naps.

Sunday: Homeward Bound and Planning the Next Adventure

The next morning, we returned the key, went for breakfast in St Katharine Docks and then headed home.

It had been one of those weekends we’d be talking about for years.

We’ve always loved city breaks as a couple, and it turns out bringing George along doesn’t mean giving up what we love. It just means seeing it all through his eyes as well.

Yes, we walked approximately a million miles, spent a small fortune on dinner, consumed enough ice cream to keep a small business afloat and nearly lost a brand-new handbag.

But we laughed, explored, made memories and got to share a little bit more of our world with George.

And honestly, I wouldn’t change a thing.

So George has officially earned his place on future city breaks.

In fact, on the drive back north, we were already excitedly planning the next one.

Next stop, Brussels.

French fries, waffles and probably another handbag shop.

What could possibly go wrong? 💋