Over to Gramps …

A few weeks ago, during our regular visit to the swimming baths, my granddaughter and I discussed the plans for the day that my wife and I were to look after her and the 4 year old during the school holidays.

We decided on a gruelling schedule, a school holiday decathlon; dog walking, swimming, bowling, and football. She was excited. I assumed with an element of self delusion that she would forget the exact details and the schedule could be diluted on the day. Someone once told me to never assume anything and sure enough she remembered the exact sequence of events including the toasted cheese sandwich at the local Subway.

Fortunately, the day was warm and gloriously sunny when I picked them up from their harassed father to set out on the dog walking element.

As always the imaginary dinosaurs (3) and imaginary Labradors (5) accompanied us and our (real) dog Millie seemed unconcerned about having to share the boot area with the additional livestock.

The walk went well apart from momentarily losing contact with my grandson followed immediately by a moment of brief anxiety when I thought he had vanished over the edge of the rock outcrop.

After the walk we went home to collect my wife and have an unscheduled breakfast. Swimming was largely enjoyable; more so because it was free and not too busy. Part of the entertainment was me, playing the role of a deranged ogre, chasing both grandchildren around the pool who then attack me, knock me over in a storm of water and shrieks; this watched by my wife, three dinosaurs, five dogs and a pool attendant with pursed lips, mentally flicking through the ‘rules of the pool’ manual.

Then the five year old whom I have taught to swim (after a fashion) decided to teach the 4 year old. The coaching technique was more SS than Dale Carnegie with failure rewarded by a clout from her, tears from him and a sharp intake of breath from the dinosaurs sat in a row on the spectator’s benches.

With the teaching methods and hurt feelings smoothed out we had a session of jumping into the pool. Normally there is only the granddaughter and involves lifting her out of the water onto the side of the pool and catching her as she jumps to shouts of ‘Again Grandpa, again!’ It is physically draining. On this day there are two children; doubly draining. We are performing this in front of a sign specifically forbidding jumping and most fun things. The pool attendant is about to lose it but the session has ended and its time to leave.

After the swimming we head towards the local bowling alley via the Subway sandwich shop. The granddaughter loves the toasted cheese open sandwiches, so on her recommendation my wife and I have the same. They taste like edible plastic carrier bags melted onto on plasterboard. The kids wash this unappetising snack down with some sort of coloured rocket fuel.

Discussions at the table remind me of watching Gorbachov and his interpreter negotiating nuclear arms reduction treaty. The 4 year old grandson, his hearing and speech affected by his grommets falling out of place ‘Я могу выпить просьба дед?

Me: ‘Eh?’ my hearing is not that much better.

My wife: ‘what did he say?’

His big sister and personal interpreter with a very serious face: ‘He says if you remove your missiles from Turkey he will move his back to the Urals’ (No, only joking he actually said ‘Can I have a drink please Grandpa?’)

The bowling alley is bijou but has all the usual electronic keyboards and screens and vending machines that dispense very small sweets for large amounts of money.

Surprisingly, the 4 year old manages not to trap his fingers between the balls as they emerge from the contraption that returns the balls. The appearance of some small friends in the aisle next to us combined the effect of the Subway rocket fuel concoction leads to a small but friendly skirmish.

Back home a pre-recorded film ‘James and the Giant Peach’ buys me a little time to have a furtive kip only to be rudely nudged awake by the four year old who wants to play football.

There is no escape.

His sister has that scrunched up serious ‘you promised’ look on her face.