It’s a not uncommon topic of conversation between my wife and I of a weekend morning, as food mess literally drips from the table and toys scatter every corner of the floor as if blasted from a cannon, to ponder what on earth we ever used to do with our Sundays BC (before children).
A family day out at the Kibble Palace, Glasgow
What glorious sleep, elaborate breakfasts and interesting conversation these decadent strangers of our not-so-distant past enjoyed as they lazed away the early hours. Yet we’d swap none of the happy chaos that awakens us, frazzled and bleary-eyed – sometimes before the sun has even risen – on what is hilariously meant to be the most restful day of the week, for a return to those peaceful Sundays of old. Well, almost none of it.
If there’s at least one thing to be said for a pre-dawn weekend rise, it’s that it leaves plenty of the day to play with once the domestic destruction has been (temporarily) mended, and we’ve reduced the stack of assorted life admin paperwork that has been slowly gathering like a week-long snowdrift on the kitchen countertop. At which point a natural impulse tends to take hold in us all: escape! Flee! Make a break for the door! And so in a soft tumble of coats, shoes, bags and pram wheels we pile our way out into the West End of Glasgow, whatever the weather (if you let the weather dictate your life in famously rainy Glasgow, then you’d almost never leave the house).
Exploring the Botanic Gardens
Rarely do we tend to have a specific purpose in mind, and it’s therein that our modest brand of Sunday perfection lies, because when you’ve got two under-threes you can rarely so much as go to the toilet without extensive logistical forward-planning.
My wife and I have lived in Glasgow’s West End on and off for well over a decade now – a leafy town-within-a-city which, watered by all that rain, explodes into a dazzling riot of greens come spring. It still takes me aback each time, even after all these years. I know the West End’s streets and parks so intimately I could probably navigate them by the cracks in the pavements (which themselves sprout greenery come May). We should probably have upsized and moved outwards by now, but it’s precisely days such as these that keep us right where we are. There’s a wealth of simple and free or inexpensive ways to while away the day at our fingertips – strolling the same neighbourhood we once did in our carefree younger lives, now with two restlessly inquisitive, funny and fast-growing children leading the way. Naff as it may sound, I’m beginning to see my corner of the city anew, through the eyes of my kids, and it’s the loveliest thing.
For instance, I’d never previously appreciated the amazing and diverse array of dogs on the walkway that skirts the banks of the River Kelvin of a spring Sunday walk. That was, until my two-year-old daughter developed an infuriatingly cute habit of not only excitedly pointing out each canine as it passes, but also attempting to engineer a close encounter with many of them (our walks tend to be slow). Likewise, her curiosity has made me start properly pausing to admire the luminous fish that circle in the pond inside the glasshouse of the Kibble Palace in the Botanic Gardens, adjacent to our home. It’s a humid, jungle-like cocoon that doubles as a great place to seek shelter when the weather gets particularly soggy.
The author checks out records in Glasgow’s West End
And in much this manner most Sundays, we follow our feet, sometimes in search of new discoveries, other times merely seeking comfort in the familiar. Perhaps it’ll lead us to Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, where my daughter hurtles around wildly between the taxidermied elephant, polar bear, tiger and other exotic ex-animals. Here, I ponder whether she yet fully understands that they aren’t alive, or just thinks that they’re standing fantastically quiet and still.
Maybe we’ll have lunch out, departing with an embarrassed apology for all the mess we leave in our wake (although we’re quietly grateful that someone else gets to clean it up for a change). If I’m lucky, I’ll get an opportunity to peel off on my own to flick through the record racks at Fopp or Oxfam Music, and maybe even squeeze in a sneaky fireside pint at the Belle or the Ubiquitous Chip, combined with something extravagantly indulgent like reading a book in peace for half an hour. But inevitably we’ll all reunite shortly after and tumble back in the door. Before long, the toy cannon’s been loaded up and fired. Happy chaos reigns again.
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