Euston, we have a problem.

Taking bub on a 1-1/2 hour public transport journey across town today to meet the work family, with a pitstop on the return to meet my hairdresser.  Sounds simple enough, right?

Um, no.

This is not a bus trip to the local mall.  This is serious.  This is London.  This involves the tube.  Worse yet, this involves the Central Line.

This could be carnage.

There are escalators and shedloads of stairs out there.  There are unhelpful mean people rushing around like their asses are on fire out there.  There is filth and there are queues and there is chewing gum stuck to shoes.  There are few stations with elevators, and few buses without two mothers already standing in the buggy spot.

It may have been easier to just shit can the visit and Skype but hey, I've had 3 months practice raising a baby.  I can do anything.

Needless to say, the past 48 hours have been overflowing with journey panic.

Spreadsheet and flow chart?  Check.
Study of every possible route to and from our destination, with alternatives built in pending the weather and inability to get on a bus?  Check.
Changing bag, handbag, bags under eyes from stressing about it?  Check.
View the forecast and panic even more?  Check.
Full pram, car seat or sling debate?  Check.
Change my mind exactly 426 times?  Check.

The final burning question is: having decided to leave behind the kitchen sink, do I bring the bungee cord and the grappling hook or just a wad of cash for a taxi when I give up on all those stairs?

Alas, we will go and it will all work out somehow.  I have, after all, raced along the Seine on a Segway in a hailstorm and came out unscathed but that is another story entirely.

Despite the aggro and 87 tests I have to take to do it, I guess it's finally  time to get my license over here.