Disclaimer
No horns, tyres, boilers, neighbours, school-attendance officers, wizards or sautéed mushrooms were harmed in the writing of this blog. Any resemblance to real NHS admin piles is tragically accurate.
There are weeks that glide along gently, offering moments of reflection, calm productivity, maybe even time for a proper cup of tea.
And then there was last week, which decided instead to run at me with a clipboard full of logistical puzzles and shout,
“GOOD LUCK, CHAMP — YOU’RE GONNA NEED IT.”
Wednesday: The MOT That Tried to Ruin My Life
The saga began with one of our cars needing its MOT.
I dropped it off at National Tyre (Cornish Way), a reliable place with friendly staff who treat you kindly right up to the moment they say,
“Your horn doesn’t work.”
Before that revelation, though, we enjoyed a delightful telephone conversation in which I attempted to explain that I don’t use my horn much —
“I mainly communicate by hand gestures.”
Apparently this cannot be written on the MOT certificate.
Shame. It would have added personality.
Five minutes later, the phone rings again:
National Tyre: “Your horn is dead. It needs replacing.”
Me: “Can it be done today?”
Them: “Absolutely not.”
They recommended Calibre Auto, conveniently next door, but still unable to perform same-day vehicular CPR.
Which meant the car had to sit at the hospital overnight like some kind of abandoned pet.
I drove home in my wife’s car.
Our son and I collected her after work, and the next morning our neighbour — who also works at the hospital — kindly chauffeured me in, which felt dangerously close to social competence on my part.
Meanwhile, I nearly had to cancel the boiler service, because nothing says “family stability” like a scheduling conflict involving heating, transport, and a surprise hornectomy.
Fortunately, my wife was working from home on her course, so the boiler person arrived and did whatever boiler people do.
Thursday: The Horn Resurrection
Off I went in the morning, driving the invalid car from the hospital to Calibre Auto.
They fixed the horn.
I paid £163.
We do not discuss this further.
To their credit, they also drove the car the 150 yards back to National Tyre — a distance that Google Maps classifies as “less than a minute” but which, somehow, still felt like a hero’s journey.
The MOT was booked for 5pm.
Perfect timing for a family planning to leave for London at… around 5pm.
I spent the day doing admin — because if your car is out of action, you may as well clear the Everest of paperwork on your desk.
Ward work? No no, today we file.
Meanwhile, earlier in the week we had applied to take our son out of school on Friday.
Naturally this request was declined.
Naturally we took him anyway.
For the record — the actual national position on term-time absence (England):
- Schools can only authorise term-time leave in exceptional circumstances (Education (Pupil Registration) Regulations 2006).
- Anything else is unauthorised absence.
- HOWEVER:
- Parents are normally fined only if a child has 10 sessions (5 days) of unauthorised absence in a 10-week period.
- Therefore, up to around 4.5 days usually does not trigger a penalty notice.
(Not legal advice. Just factual misery.)
The MOT Verdict
At 4.45pm I left work, hurried to National Tyre, and found our car suspended mid-air looking mildly traumatised.
It passed.
Barely.
Tyres were, as always, “something to think about” — the mechanical equivalent of a GP saying “keep an eye on it.”
Service booked.
Car retrieved.
Fuel added.
Family collected.
And off we went to London.
Friday: Winter Wonderland (a.k.a. The Mushrooms of Doom)
We stayed the first night in glamorous Hayes & Harlington, a location chosen for its proximity to the Elizabeth line and its general willingness to host families who arrive late and confused.
Morning came.
We hopped on the Elizabeth Line straight to Paddington, then embarked on a 15–20 minute walk to Hyde Park for Winter Wonderland, where our son had zero idea what awaited him.
We bought the unlimited ride pass and stayed mostly in the Santa-themed area, because once a child discovers a ride they like, that’s their home now.
Food was sourced from the Bavarian Village.
Most of it was good.
The sautéed mushrooms, however, contained more salt than the North Sea and instantly made me question the meaning of life.
But the hotdog was decent, and the schnitzel was fine, so all was forgiven.
Hotel Migration, Part II
After the festive chaos, we returned to the Hayes hotel, paid £17 for two days of parking (a bargain by London standards), and then relocated to another hotel near Heathrow — an essential strategic move for Saturday’s grand surprise.
Saturday: The Ultimate Birthday Deception
Our son believed we were taking him to the Science Museum.
He was thrilled.
But we… are terrible people.
Because months ago, my wife and I secretly planned a trip to the Harry Potter Studios near Watford.
As we approached the area, we happened to drive behind one of the Harry Potter shuttle buses.
Our son: “Why is there a Harry Potter bus?”
Us: “No idea, darling. London is full of mysteries.”
It was only when we parked directly outside the entrance at around 8.30am that realisation dawned.
The look on his face was worth every MOT, horn replacement, salty mushroom, and hotel change in the previous 72 hours.
What you can do at Harry Potter Studios (Winter Edition):
- Walk the Great Hall decorated for Christmas
- See the Forbidden Forest covered in seasonal effects
- Explore Diagon Alley dressed for winter
- Drink Butterbeer while pretending not to notice the price
- Visit the Hogwarts Express on Platform 9¾
- Touch approximately 400 props your child insists are life-changing
- Stand in awe in front of the full Hogwarts castle model — now covered in snow
- Spend mortgage-level money in the gift shop
Our son loved EVERY SECOND.
Conclusion: A Difficult Start, a Magical Ending
The week began with a broken horn, nearly-cancelled boiler appointments, neighbour-based rescue missions, and administrative Olympic trials.
But it ended with our son having one of the best weekends of his life.
And honestly?
I’d pay £163 for that horn again.
…
Actually no I wouldn’t.
But you get the sentiment.
Pseudocyst 
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