During my teens, my friends and I wandered up and down the King’s Road, fascinated by the scarlet and lime-green Mohicans of the punks at The World’s End. We traipsed round the musty-scented Kensington indoor market, flicking through racks of second-hand Levi’s and bins of vinyl. For decent coffee, it was always the brightly lit Bar Italia on Frith Street, where I tried not to look at my teenage spots in the mirror-lined wall.
The London I grew up in was a grimier, less polished city than today’s. And I loved it. Almost half a century on, I still do. It’s a love I hope to pass on to my son.
So far, so good. He has yet to ask why we don’t travel as much as many of his peers, and seems content with the relaxed pace of our time here.
My husband works full time, and I’m freelance, which means all the holiday childcare falls to me. At the start of each one, I experience a moment of panic as I stare at the almost blank slate of the weeks ahead and think: How on earth will I fill them?
Then, inevitably, they find their rhythm.
Last Easter, there were impromptu meet-ups in our neighbourhood: with other children on staycations, playing hide-and-seek or football on our local square, or digging in the sandpit at the playground. Luckily, my closest mum friend, who I met on the square and has two girls my son adores, is usually around.
There were days my son and I headed into town, catching the 24 bus from Camden – a redesign of the Routemasters I spent years jumping on and off. We sat on the top deck, in the coveted front seats, watching the city sweep past, my son thrilled by the view of the HS2 construction site at Euston, with its yellow cranes and criss-crossing tracks. We saw Nature’s Confetti, a beautiful installation of cherry blossom bursting into life at the Outernet. I bought ice creams from the gelateria tucked away on a Soho backstreet, and on the way home we checked out Fortnum’s bucolic Easter windows.
Another day, we visited the Matisse-inspired giant snail at Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall and walked along the Thames to Borough Market for chips and custard doughnuts. After catching a river boat to Embankment Pier, we stood on the pedestrian walkway next to Hungerford Bridge and watched trains slide in and out of Charing Cross.
We also trawled some of London’s best bakeries on a hot cross bun hunt – primarily a treat for me, but one my son was, unsurprisingly, fully on board with. And when he begged me to take him on the DLR, I was surprised how exhilarating I found being swept into the steep tunnel, rows of lights streaking past, on our return into Bank.
These stitched-together outings, from which I often had change from £20, were special. Though perhaps not in the way the word is often understood today, when it feels like parents are under more pressure to provide their children with “standout” experiences.
Contemporary London offers these in abundance, often at a hefty price. The immersive Paddington Bear Experience or the Peppa Pig Afternoon Tea Sightseeing Bus Tour will set you back around £100 for one adult and one child.
They are lovely for an occasional treat. Though the last time I took my son to one – Jurassic World: The Experience at Battersea Power Station – it proved harder to drag him and his friends away from the nearby playground afterwards than from the swaying, roaring, life-like dinosaurs.
This Easter, I’ve not planned much yet. We’ll definitely go to the drive-through car wash, whose rushing water and swirling brushes are always a hit; perhaps the miniature railway in Brockwell Park and Brixton food market. And the comic bookshop I recently spotted on Berwick Street, which is near the erstwhile Victorian urinal – now an underground café – my son is keen to see.