Let me lead you through the streets of London, carrying three heavy bags

We have promised our son that he can visit the famous Hamley’s toy store and a computer gaming lounge in the city. We board an open top tour bus thinking it will be a convenient way of getting to Piccadilly while also taking in some sights.

But I have not considered the slow pace of the bus on the crowded streets and worry that we are already falling behind schedule as the vehicle inches its way past the Houses of Parliament. What began as a relaxing trip is further spoiled by a fierce shower of rain which sends us scurrying to the lower deck to take cover from the fat raindrops.

Then, the driver informs us, there is a protest travelling towards Trafalgar Square which will prevent the bus from getting to Piccadilly (the only reason we boarded in the first place), so we have to get off and proceed on foot. As we walk, the rain becomes even heavier. Our pace is slowed further as my son is nursing a badly sprained ankle.

We stop for lunch. The waitress at the diner which my son chooses tells us there is a wait of an hour for a table. We try a second restaurant which is much quieter but are left for 15 minutes without service before we leave. The third establishment we visit seems more promising. That is until my wife discovers a huge bug in her salad. My son is so upset that he cannot eat his pizza and we leave as hungry as when we arrived.

We plod on, soaked and sodden, towards Regent Street. Eventually we locate the store which has the gaming lounge that my son has been speaking excitedly about for days. We climb the stairs only to be met by a staff member who tells us that the lounge is closed for a private event and won’t be open for another hour.

As I said, things are not going to plan, and my son is becoming suitably miserable. I glance nervously at the time. We need to navigate our way, with my son’s injured foot, back to the hotel, pick up our bags and then travel to Victoria Station where a strike is ensuring that there is only a limited train service to Gatwick Airport. The maths don’t add up.

There is not time to wait for the gaming lounge to open. I fear there is not even enough time to quickly visit Hamley’s. I know that the sensible thing is to cut our losses and go now to get our luggage. Maybe, in the broader picture, it is also the right thing to do, a valuable lesson for my son that sometimes things do not work out the way we had hoped.

I study the disappointment in his face. I cannot bear it. I don’t want his final memories of the trip to be negative, for the bitterness to tinge the whole experience. I take a deep breath.

"Right, why don’t you guys go to Hamley’s and then do the gaming lounge after? I’ll go and get the luggage and meet you back here.”

There is a look of concern on my wife’s face.

“You can’t do that. The bags are too heavy, you can’t carry them halfway across London on your own.” These are exactly my own thoughts. “It’s ok,’ I say. ‘I’ll manage.”

I set off on my solitary voyage, pausing to try and make sense of the dizzying underground tube map. After a couple of wrong turns, I find the correct route. Less than an hour later, I’m standing at the hotel reception while the porter retrieves our bags.

“Gee, these are heavy bags sir," he says cheerily as he emerges from the room behind the desk. In an effort to save costs, we travelled on the plane with hand luggage. We packed three bags densely with everything we needed. None of the bags have wheels.

I take a moment to consider my options. I strap one bag to my back, another onto my chest. The third, I consider balancing on my head before I settle for carrying it by arm, rotating from left to right as I get tired. I set off on the 15 minute walk back to the nearest tube station like a tortoise which has let itself go.

The earlier rain has now receded and been replaced by sunshine so intense I can almost see the pavements drying up in front of me. I walk slowly, trying to retain my balance, and have to stop every few minutes for a rest. I dread falling over carrying this weight because I fear I won’t be able to get myself upright again.

The tube station, predictably, is packed. I am the least popular passenger as I struggle to board carrying three fat, heavy bags. Each time I turn or even move slightly, I bump against another passenger. “Oops...really sorry...pardon me..sorry there.”

The heat on the underground is so overwhelming that I can’t get a breath. My arms and legs ache. I’m close to fainting, desperately claustrophobic and sweat is stinging my eyes.

Later in the day I stagger back into the store in Regent Street and slowly mount the stairs. After a minute or two I locate my son playing a game in front of a giant screen. I slowly peel the bags off and collapse onto a chair. It is only now that I realise that my clothes and hair are soaked. My wife looks shocked.

“Is it still raining?”

“No,” I gasp. “It’s sunny now.”

My son beckons me over, excited to show me the game he’s playing.

“Have you had a good time son?”

“Yes daddy, it’s brilliant.”