STEVE CANAVAN: ‘I didn’t want to risk him putting me in a headlock’

A chilling meeting in the lift...
A chilling meeting in the lift...
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On our recent trip abroad, I noticed, with some amazement, how much friendlier people are when you have a baby in tow.

At the Eurostar terminal, the passport control bloke – normally a breed of folk for whom a smile is as rare as a flicker of movement inside Donald Trump’s brain – looked at Mary and not only beamed but then made small talk.

Ooh la la! More peculiar goings-on in the Canavan bedroom.

Ooh la la! More peculiar goings-on in the Canavan bedroom.

‘My, she is beautiful,’ he said cheerily as he examined our passports. He then said: ‘Takes after her mother for her looks though, doesn’t she?’

‘Well I sincerely hope your children don’t get their looks from you sir,’ I bantered back, though I’m not sure he took the remark in the spirit in which it was intended for he shot me a funny look and sent me to a small side-room for a full body search.

Not everyone was as jovial though.

On arriving in Paris, we caught the Metro – the city’s underground train – and it was refreshing to note that, like London’s tube, or any other underground transport system in the world, everyone on board looked sullen and fed-up and absolutely no one made eye contact or, god forbid, friendly conversation with anyone else.

I threw down my left hand to preserve my modesty but the women were not perturbed

Instead every single person in the carriage wore little headphones and sat staring at their phones with a look on their face that screamed, ‘look buddy, I don’t want anything to do with the outside world – try talking to me and you’ll regret it’.

Mrs Canavan and I staggered on board with three cases, two large rucksacks, four plastic carrier bags, a pushchair and a baby.

Both seats nearest us were taken. In one sat a trendy-looking fella sporting sunglasses, despite the fact we were in a dark tunnel 300ft below the ground – idiot; while in the other perched a man in his twenties dressed in a suit, reading the business page of a broadsheet newspaper and with a briefcase tucked between his legs. He surveyed Mrs Canavan and I and all our baggage at length and remarked, ’yes I can see you really need to sit down but I’m ignorant, selfish and rude and besides I can tell you’re English and I hate the English – no, despise them – so there’s no way on God’s earth I’m going to move’. Actually he didn’t say that but I could tell he was thinking it.

He continued to lazily leaf through his paper while we had to stand for the full 25-minute journey, annoying as I really wanted to sit – and if a second person had given up their seat, Mrs Canavan could have sat down too.

We finally located our hotel which, it turned out by happy coincidence, was also being used as the official base for the World Wrestling Championships which were taking place in the city.

The hotel was the place where all the competitors were relaxing between bouts which made it an interesting place to be.

After we’d checked in, for instance, we pressed the button on the lift and when the doors opened, standing there were two large fellas wearing leotards who smelt faintly of something medical that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. One was wearing a mask.

I said hello, casually, he said hello back. I thought about continuing the conversation but I didn’t want to risk upsetting him in case he put me in a headlock and grappled me to the floor.

After we’d reached our room an amusing thing happened.

I was completely naked preparing to have a shower after our long journey, when there was a knock at the door and, without us having any time to react, it swung open and two women walked in.

I threw down my left hand to preserve my modesty but the women were not at all perturbed and simply said a cheery ‘bonjour’.

They were carrying several bags and, confused, I thought at first they were planning to spend the night with us, presumably some sort of weird French custom. ‘Well, better than two blokes,’ I thought.

Then Mrs Canavan and I realised they were carrying a travel cot for Mary which we had requested when we’d booked online months earlier.

The pair traipsed into the centre of the room and began erecting it (despite my state of undress I’ll resist any temptation to insert a crude joke here), while I hastily nipped into the bathroom and put on the first thing I could find, which happened to be Mrs C’s pink satin pyjama bottoms.

When we checked out the next morning to catch a train to Spain, I noticed the two travel cot women pointing in my direction to fellow staff members and giggling. Can’t think why...