"One day daddy - will we go into space?" Fintan asks as we watch Dr Who.
"Yes. One day - you and I might even get to go into space for a day trip. But when I'm very old I imagine." (I already have a secret plan to remortgage the house and buy me a Virgin Galactic space ticket - but I haven't mentioned it to the wife yet!).
I warm to my theme. "One day Fintan, everyone on earth will leave in spaceships and journey off to other planets and other stars. 'Cos eventually, the Sun will expand and first it'll eat up Mercury and Mars and then us. So we better be gone by then or it'll get pretty hot!"
I am pleased at my little educational explanation about the way the universe works. I am giving Fintan a solid grounding in Red Dwarfs and interstellar space travel. What more can a kid ask for?
"Daddy...?"
"Yes Fintan." We are busy watching some "playdough" people in Dr Who melt in a Vat of acid.
"Is the Sun going to blow up the earth before or after Jenny's party?"
Oh crap. This educational malarkey has backfired in pretty spectacular style.
"No. Don't worry about it. The earth won't get eaten for millions of years...billions probably and we won't be around then anyway..."
"But where are we going to go Daddy? Where?"
"Well - in our spaceships. Or in the Tardis."
"Daddy. Are you made of Playdough or real?" he asks.
"Ok," I decide. Time to turn off Dr Who. Explaining time and space travel to a five year old is opening up way too many cans of worms for me. I got so many cans - I have a practical can factory.
We resort to the tried and tested favourite. "Monsters!" combined with "Raft". This segues nicely into a game of musical bumps combined with front rolls. Things are going well til Declan attempts a double roll and a single strand of spaghetti from lunchtime comes launching out of his mouth along with some bolognese.
"I sick daddy!" he grins and hands me the strand of spaghetti covered mucus globule.
"Thank you Declan - that's lovely."
We go to see the army of Romans busy camping in the centre of Chester. There's 'fousands of 'em - all over the city. For a supposedly genius Empire - you woulda thought they would have invented woolly trousers for North West England. The short Roman pleated skirt look might be fine when you're busy eating grapes in yer Chaise Lounge in Rome for the summer - or chilling at the Roman baths at Ephesus. But - Chester. No good. And that's probably why they stopped at Hadrian's wall.
"There's no way we are going any fookin' further up North. It's fookin' freezing."
"Centurion. You will go where I command. To the North!"
"Fook that. I forgot my thermals!"
We watch a pretty fiery re-enactment of some Celts bashing the crap out of each other in the amphitheatre. Then we walk over to the main Roman encampment and watch this gnarled looking authentic blacksmith making swords at his Roman Furnace. He's wearing what appears to be a small discarded potato sack. It's indecent enough for familes to start covering their hands over their toddlers eyes. Eighty year old men in potato sacks. 9 out of ten for authenticity. One out of ten for decency. How he doesn't burn his nadgers off - I'll never know!
Overall though - it's pretty cool. All these guys look like they wear this kit out every weekend. Entire families are dressed up.
A Roman Centurion comes up to me. "Have you got the time mate?"
"Yeah. It's one twenty." I tell him.
"Cheers mate. Lads!" He shouts to a gang of Centurions and their wives sitting around a fire. "The re-enactment's in ten minutes."
"Can't wear watches can we? We'd look stupid!" he jokes and wanders off to get his sword and man-sized shield.
What? As oppossed to wearing a red pleated skirt and sandals in the middle of Chester on a Sunday afternoon. Nooo.....don't want to look stupid.
Having said that. As a unit or column or whatever they're called - they look pretty impressive.
I pass a druid lady giving the Romans a right bashing to a group of onlookers (What they ever do for us eh?!).
"We had the written word! We had the written word!" the old druid gal warned us sternly.
"And they knew it! The Romans knew it!" (She's taken this all very personally - all things considered).
"And that's why they marched down to our Island stronghold in Anglesey and destroyed our great library and our great books. To wipe us from History!"
"Is there any evidence of a great Druid Library?" someone in front of me pipes up. He's got a kid in a buggy and looks a reasonable sort. She glares at him.
"Well... No. But I'm sure there was one. There must have been.."
We move on. And I think to myself that I might like to dress up at the weekend and bash the crap out of my mates in mock battles. All I need to do is grow a three foot ginger beard and put on twenty stone and I'm practically a Celtic warlord cum Braveheart extra in one fell swoop! (whatever that means).
We head home and the following day I'm in Switerland again. Switzerland is a nice place. The mountains and the lakes. It really is picture postcard. And they have double decker trains. Double Decker trains rock!
I skype the kids from the hotel. Sarah brings the laptop into the living room. There's Declan grinning back at me sitting on his potty watching the tv.
"Hiya Daddy! Come home!" he says and then turns to get back to business. Skype is truly great. But - it's still hard being away from the little blighters!
At the airport on the way home I am tempted to buy Sarah a yodelling Coffee mug. But - something stops me. I think it is a vision from my future...I am in casualty...the nurse is trying to remove some china shards from my head...Somewhere in the background my wife is talking to the police and saying something about "Yodel that one you stupid eejit!". So I opt for a tolberone instead. Chocolates are much safer!
Today I head into town and take surrepticious delight in finding my book on the bookshelf in Waterstones wedged somewhere between Dave Balcadi and Agatha Christie. Not bad company. I take a photo for my blog. And wait for someone to eject me. There might be rules against taking photo's in bookshops. You just don't know these days.
I pass a twenty foot giant, trundling down the centre of the road. There is a twenty foot Giant Cub Scout with a passing resemblance to Baden Powell (in a dress - what the heck is that about?) immediately behind the first beardy giant. And following up behind are a gang of at least thirty more giants. One looks a bit like Maid Marion and another is in a lovely gold dress.
"Look Fintan! Look!" Giants on the road. Giants!
"I know that Daddy. I know that." He looks at me as if I'm possibly the most embarrassing dad ever.
"I already seen them daddy."
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