Horsey, horsey will you stop.

There’s a carousel which is a fixture on Stockport’s main shopping street. I have regularly taken Ed there for a ride. Today was the first time, for a long period, that he went on it and the lady controlling the rides remarked to Ed on how he’s grown. As I strapped him into into the Safari Car, there were protests from Sam who wished to have a ride himself.   Sam could go on the horse or motorcycle if I accompanied him I was told. I’m not quick-thinking enough to have amicably declined this and, as I took my place on the horse, behind a strapped up Sam, it occurred to me that I had never seen any other adult opt to do what I was doing. I have participated in things before where I have felt a bit of a berk – like being the only man in a group of parents and children trundling around in a circle singing Ring a Ring of Roses – and, it seems the best way to avoid embarrassment, is entering into the spirit of things. Ideally, I should be wearing pastel coloured clothes and be making excitable chatter to Sam about how we’re right behind Coco the Train. Instead, I winced and, as the carousel rotated with growing momentum, felt increasingly sick, my demeanour getting more pallid for anyone who happened to be watching with each passing rotation. The people who work the thing have my respect; there’s more to it than just pulling the start/stop levers as they talk the kids through the process. Still, on reflection, I’d rather not have learnt of this. In future, if I remember, I'll avoid passing too closely to the carousel with Sam until he is of an age to go on it on his own.