Ben Machell braves the train north alone with the little ones

I got the train to Leeds the other day. This is not, in itself, a big deal. I do it all the time. Everybody who lives in London but who grew up somewhere else has their own version of this ritual journey back to their tribal homeland. Mine just happens to involve the East Coast Main Line, four cans of strong lager and ‘Smalltown Boy’ by Bronksi Beat playing on a constant loop. This means that by the time I finally catch sight of the Emley Moor transmitter mast — Britain’s tallest freestanding structure — I’m pretty emotional, like some semi-pissed salmon flopping upstream to where it was first spawned.

But the other day, for the first time ever, I made the journey with my two young children. Just the three of us. No Stella or haunting synth-pop for me, just rice cakes, wet wipes and anxiety. All that week I did a lot of what sports psychologists call ‘positive visualisation’, picturing myself successfully boarding the carriage with a toddler, a baby, a pram and two large bags. I was pretty psyched when the big moment came although, in the end, a nice Geordie train guard helped me. To be honest, I’d secretly visualised that happening anyway. Amazing, the power of the mind.

The passengers smiled and nodded sympathetically and I started to get a bit paranoid that they thought I was one of those dopey single dads you increasingly see on adverts for things like sandwich thins, who are basically clueless but always come good in the end because they bought some sandwich thins for their kids. I didn’t have any sandwich thins, but did my best to keep them happy with a running commentary: Look! Alexandra Palace! Where daddy once saw a disappointing Morrissey gig! Hey! We’re in Peterborough! Makes you realise that Cambridgeshire extends quite far north, doesn’t it? Wow! This is Doncaster! It literally means ‘Fort on the River Don’! And so on.

By the final stretch everyone’s patience was beginning to fray. I tried pointing out Wakefield jail, where they put Harold Shipman, only then my son wanted to know more about Harold Shipman, so I just gave up and let him watch cartoons.

We got to Leeds where my mum, radiant as an angel, was waiting for us on the platform. Then home, kids to bed, before slumping at the kitchen table, where I drank four cans of beer in about 35 minutes. Easy.