"You will come, won't you," Kat insisted. "It'll just be a couple of hours, 2.00 til 4.00." She'd lined up assorted lovely couples and yummy mummies with their Georges, Alberts and Henrys for Zeb's birthday party. Age three seems to me to be threshold where a party begins to mean something to the child rather than the sentiment of the parents. It seemed doable, too, even though I'd had hardly had any time to sort out the 6.30pm meeting with Barrie. Mary was vague about the exact arrangements, but at least we had a postcode. Then Kat texted to say the carpark was full. Jack and Harriet's youngest, Silas, agreed to come with us. Although there promised to be plenty to eat, he insisted on taking the chunk of bread that was the remnant of his lunch. AJ met us in the alternative, Dore and Totley railway station, carpark. We loaded up with folding chairs and carrier bags of pizzas and fruit-juice cartons. "Last time we came, there was hardly anybody here. Today it's heaving - sorry." He apologised inecessarily. We trekked up a farm track.
Ahead we could see a half-size railway footbridge, four concentric miniature tracks passing through picket-fenced station buildings, and, through the crowd of parents-and-children, several steam engines taking around their passengers. A yellow board announced 'SMEE' - Sheffield and District Society of Model and Experimental Engineers Ltd (founded 1905). "Goodness," I thought. "So this is what Mr and Mrs Average find to do on a Sunday afternoon. And we've set up a mission focus group to discuss how to connect with them." "Over on the left," AJ encouraged, as we negotiated the footbridge. "We didn't bother with the gazebo, and all the picnic tables are taken."
The central field was about an acre in size, swelling with families (and assorted grandparents) under the sunshine and autumnal trees. Tables sagged under the piles of sandwiches, pop bottles and birthday cakes. Streamers and bunting announced first, 2nd, 3rd and 4th birthday groups. The air was pungent with smoke from the locos, and toots and whistles ascended the musical scale as the train rides passed the rail junctions and cross-overs and emerged from tunnels.
"You could find a new hobby here," Kat burbled. "It's all run by grandads like you. Engineers. All voluntary. AJ's going to get a fistful of tickets - only £1 each - so we can all have a ride." It was indeed an interesting set-up. But I could resist the idea of spending weekends sitting astride a hissing boiler wearing a scruffy jacket spotted with assorted interest-group lapel badges. I took Silas and Zebedee to peer over a fence and wave at people, while Kat spread out the food on travel rugs. Mary occupied younger grandson Zane. Various of AJ's and Kat's friends arrived.
Zeb doesn't like cake, so he had a birthday pizza, with candles, instead. I tempted Silas away from his chunk of dry bread, and he tucked in to some grapes. Viv had mentioned that he'd been invited, too, so I texted him some directions. They proved unnecessary. When the first ride contingent made their way to the ticket box, I saw his red cross teeshirt across the platform as he was busy with his camera. Now I was looking after Zane, having rescued him from chewing a polystyrene plate followed by an apple juice carton. He's at the everything-goes-into-my-mouth stage. "They're on the red train," I explained to Edward's mum. We waved excitedly. And then the next time they came round. And then two more times.
By 4.00pm the crowd was thinning out, and the queues for rides had shrunk. AJ's and Kat's friends began to give their goodbyes. Mary and I brushed the sycamore leaves off the blankets, scooped up arms full of folding picnic chairs and tottered back to our car. Silas skipped along with a white balloon. "Thanks for coming," Kat offered for the last time. "No, it's been fascinating," I could truthfully reply.
Check out http://www.sheffieldsmee.co.uk/
The central field was about an acre in size, swelling with families (and assorted grandparents) under the sunshine and autumnal trees. Tables sagged under the piles of sandwiches, pop bottles and birthday cakes. Streamers and bunting announced first, 2nd, 3rd and 4th birthday groups. The air was pungent with smoke from the locos, and toots and whistles ascended the musical scale as the train rides passed the rail junctions and cross-overs and emerged from tunnels.
"You could find a new hobby here," Kat burbled. "It's all run by grandads like you. Engineers. All voluntary. AJ's going to get a fistful of tickets - only £1 each - so we can all have a ride." It was indeed an interesting set-up. But I could resist the idea of spending weekends sitting astride a hissing boiler wearing a scruffy jacket spotted with assorted interest-group lapel badges. I took Silas and Zebedee to peer over a fence and wave at people, while Kat spread out the food on travel rugs. Mary occupied younger grandson Zane. Various of AJ's and Kat's friends arrived. Zeb doesn't like cake, so he had a birthday pizza, with candles, instead. I tempted Silas away from his chunk of dry bread, and he tucked in to some grapes. Viv had mentioned that he'd been invited, too, so I texted him some directions. They proved unnecessary. When the first ride contingent made their way to the ticket box, I saw his red cross teeshirt across the platform as he was busy with his camera. Now I was looking after Zane, having rescued him from chewing a polystyrene plate followed by an apple juice carton. He's at the everything-goes-into-my-mouth stage. "They're on the red train," I explained to Edward's mum. We waved excitedly. And then the next time they came round. And then two more times.
By 4.00pm the crowd was thinning out, and the queues for rides had shrunk. AJ's and Kat's friends began to give their goodbyes. Mary and I brushed the sycamore leaves off the blankets, scooped up arms full of folding picnic chairs and tottered back to our car. Silas skipped along with a white balloon. "Thanks for coming," Kat offered for the last time. "No, it's been fascinating," I could truthfully reply.
Check out http://www.sheffieldsmee.co.uk/
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