KIERAN HOWARD: Would you fly with a toddler?

If a film of that title ever gets commissioned, it’ll definitely require an 18 certificate.

And that’s the overriding reason Louie’s still yet to board his maiden flight.

It’s the sheer dread of being 35,000 feet above the ground and imprisoned with a screaming, unco-operative two-year-old.

When you’re up in the clouds, there’s no escaping it and nowhere to hide, particularly when it’s your child.

A mum found that out to her cost, along with everyone else, on a Lufthansa flight from Germany to New York.

The three-year-old boy shouted, screamed, ran and climbed for the entirety of the eight-hour journey from hell.

The pilots were the only ones blissfully unaware of what was unfolding behind them.

The mother did occasionally try to calm her son.

Before take-off, she also appealed to the flight attendants to activate the Wi-Fi so she could utilise her iPad.

A tablet can be a saviour for parents in most social situations.

Sadly, this mum’s efforts went unrewarded and the child’s relentless anger continued throughout.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that we don’t plan to take Louie abroad at some point.

We’d love to one day introduce him to the beautiful island of Cuba.

Kerrie and I were married there in 2014.

Before that brave move, though, I just want to be absolutely certain the little man can cope with being contained in a long metal tube for hours on end.

I don’t want to rashly risk a long-haul journey and potentially ruin the beginning or end of innocent people’s holidays.

We’ll first test him with a short trip to the Channel Islands or something similar.

That seems the much safer option to me.

I want to be confident that he can travel without driving to insanity the other 300 passengers and crew – and me.

So far, aside from pictures in books, he hasn’t even seen a plane in his 27 months of life.

Yes, I sometimes experience a day when I wonder if some kind of demonic possession has occurred without my knowledge.

And I question whether I need to consult a priest and arrange an exorcism.

But at least on those days, which are thankfully very rare, we have the ability to get out of the house and do something else.

A plane offers no such luxury. For now, Cuba can wait.

THE ROYAL HIGH STREET VISIT

I climbed Everest last week.

Well not exactly, but it felt like I had by the end of a trip out with the boy.

My equivalent to reaching the summit of the world’s highest mountain is attempting Gosport High Street on a busy market day with a dawdling two-year-old trailing behind me.

They’re basically two very similar challenges.

If you can survive a trip to town with a toddler, you can do Everest.

Pre-Louie, it used to take me about 20 minutes to browse the many (not so many these days) stalls and make it from one end of town to the other.

I remember being so blasé as I nonchalantly strolled down the middle and watched on as others struggled to contend with their tots’ boredom-fuelled tantrums.

I’m not blasé anymore.

I’m now very much on the same page as I’m now lucky if I manage the same walk in less than an hour. And not much of that 60 minutes is spent browsing either.

Most of it’s spent keeping tabs on the little man and ensuring I return home with the same number of children I left with, and preferably the same child as well.

It doesn’t help that he’ll only willingly walk for about 25 per cent of our visit. He quickly gets bored propelling himself and the call of ‘carry, carry’ is then fired at me.

I’m then forced to chauffeur him around like royalty for the remainder of our visit.