We were in Sheffield attending a Holy Communion for my cousin’s little girl, who I had assumed was also my goddaughter, but when there was no reference made to this in terms of the ceremony I was half convinced I might have dreamed this guardian role into existence, in the same way I was awkward with a male comedian back in 2017 for a full 24 hours thinking we had shifted before realising, as I drove home from the Galway gig we had done together, that our romantic encounter had in fact been a dream. 

The irony is that I ended up marrying the guy four years later.

In the spirit of ‘Mammy and Number One’s Big Adventure’, I had booked the earliest possible flights on the Saturday to give us a full extra day in England before the big event at 9.30am on the Sunday morning. 

Of course, an early flight is great in theory, but first we had to get to the airport, which is located a handy two hours away (basically down the road by West Kerry standards) and to have enough time at the other end meant getting up at the distinctly ungodly hour of 4am.

Number One was a great sport when it came to rising in the middle of the night, especially when he learned our first stop was going to be Legoland in Manchester, a mere 15-minute taxi drive from the airport. 

Landing into Manchester before breakfast, the lovely taxi driver who ferried us to our venue at Trafford Centre was clearly concerned for our welfare in a big city, especially when Number One declared he didn’t have a favourite Premier League football team.

“But I love soccer,” he insisted, and as the driver tried to extract more information on Irish club teams I didn’t have the heart to tell him that when Number One says he loves soccer he mostly loves kicking balls indoors in the direction of breakable objects.

So early were we that Legoland wasn’t even open when we arrived, and the taximan dropped us to a Tim Hortons instead, slowly explaining to me what a doughnut is despite me being familiar with the franchise (I once spent a summer in Canada crying over an ex, so for me Tim Hortons coffee will always taste of tears).

I drew the line at him instructing me how to cross the street, which was foolish considering I ended up walking down what I thought was a footpath and turned out to be a Starbucks drive-thru. 

The worst part of getting knocked down in Manchester at the Trafford Centre on the Starbucks drive-thru would be everyone back home presuming you had broken the boycott rather than knowing it was actually due to your inability at the age of nearly 43 to successfully cross a two-lane road.

Legoland was great, if you’re into Lego, which if you’re not I would say best to steer clear and stick to toys of the pre-assembled variety.

Afterwards, we took the tram to the train station in the city, with Number One only making a dart for the tracks twice — our most successful attempt at public transport to date.

Sheffield

The train to Sheffield then followed, and it was at this point that 12 hours on the trot finally caught up with Number One and he conked out in his window seat. By the time we got to Sheffield, he was completely disoriented and refusing to co-operate at all, so much so I barely got him into the taxi and onto our hotel.

Thankfully, he needed less cajoling to get out of the taxi than to get in it, and so we checked in fairly effortlessly, but my concerns were starting to grow when I noticed a large number of stag parties loitering about the place and spotting an Irish pub in the distance.

Yes, I had only gone and booked us into a hotel on the peripheries of the Sheffield equivalent of Temple Bar, though fortunately not as lively or late-night due to the English drinking laws reigning it in at a reasonable hour — hence why their Holy Communions can run at a time when most Irish stags would be returning home.

Just as we are going to sleep, I hear the words no parent who has been up for 16 hours wants to hear: “I’ll teach you to play chess, Mammy.” 

In a fit of ’90s parenting, I had purchased Number One a travel set for our adventure, and regretted it as he talked me through the rules of the game, which he often plays with his dad. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the rules of chess, but there are a lot, and by 9pm I was on my knees, pleading with him for mercy.

Eventually we fell asleep in the big double bed with Number One muttering about guarding his queen (I’m hoping this is a cute nickname for his mother) and about making sure we didn’t forget any of his pieces.

The next day was lovely, as family gatherings can be, though we did have to quickly vacate the Communion Mass at one point when Number One started saying really unhelpful things like: “This is boring.” 

While I often get similar heckles during the comedy show, I worried the priest would take offence.

But lovely it was, and afterwards, despite a train cancellation or two, we made it to the aeroplane with all our chess and Lego pieces intact. As we took off, Number One commented on how serious the police were in England. 

“I think they’re quicker to put you in jail,” he noted, and I fret that anyone overhearing this conversation will presume I am indoctrinating him into a life of crime. Given I am fairly sure I accidentally underpaid on the tram, this isn’t a stretch.

Still, we had such a lovely adventure that I genuinely can’t wait to embark on another with my little guy sometime soon, though next time we will definitely be ‘forgetting’ the chess set at home, because this Queen needs some sleep.