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.

The Husband is so bloody busy that he doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. He’s stacked out with design work for at least the next six months.  He may be bloody busy but he’s got a twinkle in his eye again.

Someone else who is twinkling at the moment is The 5 Year Old.  Firstly, she got a glowing report at parent’s evening last week and, secondly, managed to swim a length of the pool without armbands … thanks to Gramps and his swimming lessons! We go to Italy during Spring Break so it will be nice to see her swimming unaided.

Our Landlord wants to sell the house, so in 4 months we will be moving AGAIN, this time to a house where we will be staying for a looooong time. I am planning a huge clutter cull which means I’ll be spending hours uploading things onto ebay.

First thing that might go on ebay is The Car which is still very poorly … we are having to charge the battery before any trips and then wait for the engine to cut out long after the keys have been taken out of the ignition.    

I’m quite enjoying walking to school and work … when it’s not raining.  The children, however, are losing their enthusiasm for walking to school …

… particularly The 4 year old who has fully recovered from the chicken pox but is deaf again.  He had grommets fitted last year and they fell out into his ear canal just after Christmas.  Now it seems they have somehow made their way back to where they were but he can’t hear anything.  I find myself talking to him both loud and slowly.  The next step is a hearing test to confirm what we already know and then I imagine some sort of operation to either replace or correct his grommets.  In the meantime he has to struggle on in his own little hard of hearing bubble. 

The Dog hasn’t been sick recently and seems to have stopped moulting, which is a vast improvement on recent months.

Me?  I’m looking forward to Easter.  We’re going up to Scotland for Easter where we will be doing our family egg roll.  I have been practicing and think that I stand a chance of bringing the Egg Rolling Championship Cup home.  Who am I kidding? 

I am feeling the need for a wee blogoliday to do some reading in the bath.  I’m currently reading Half of a Yellow Sun. It’s the sort of book that I can’t put down and I don’t want it to end. 

I also need to catch up on lots of little jobs; I have some writing commitments that have fallen by the wayside but I need to catch up on self preservation mainly … if you could see my unruly eyebrows you’d be worried. 

Let’s not speak of any other ‘hairy’ areas.

So I shall see you all next week.  Have a good weekend people!

After the interrogation by the receptionist as to whether or not I am sixty years old, a doubt that secretly pleases me, we are given a wrist band which the granddaughter takes to a screen in the wall to receive the code number of the locker we have been allocated.

We always share the same family cubicle in the communal changing rooms and chat while changing into our respective swim wear. The conversation has a decidedly schizophrenic flavour. One minute I am discussing the planet and stars with a teenager then it lurches to a 30 year old telling me how untidy her mother is (this to deflect my criticism of the way she throws her clothes in a heap on the floor), followed by a five year old earnestly explaining how she has brought her imaginary dogs and dinosaurs with her to the pool.

Once in the pool she remains in the role of the 5 year old where I teach her to swim and I am taught how to catch a miniature football. We have the same coaching methods which involve a lot of shouting insults and encouragement under the gaze of five Labradors and three Dinosaurs, which I understand watch from the pool edge.

Next time the smug receptionist will be told; 1 Adult over 60, 1 five year old child, 5 Labradors and 3 dinosaurs. Please.

The swimming is progressing well. She can swim almost a breadth of the pool, albeit at a forty five degree angle in the water.

As I stand over her giving noisy support I recall the time I taught her mother, a little older at the time. I had given her the goal of swimming a whole length. Approaching the final few yards, watched by her proud father and encouraged by shouts of encouragement and probably insults she slowly submerged. I remember the difficult decision; to stop her before she drowned or wait until she had succeeded by touching the end of the pool then perform a rescue and mouth to mouth resuscitation.

A mental note has been made not to do this with my granddaughter; her colourful description of such unconventional coaching methods will result in an equally colourful phone call from her parents.

We are always the last to be herded from the pool by the earnest attendants (Herded being the operative word in view of my granddaughters imaginary pets) then, after a hot shower we continue our bizarre conversations in the family changing room.

Later, as I drive away after delivering my slightly damp and shiny granddaughter with her relieved parents I am sure I can feel the warm breath of the three dinosaurs that are sat in a row on the back seat.

Note to Gramps : Fruit Shoots are like amphetamine to the 5 year old who bounces off the walls and talks utter gibberish for an hour after consumption.

He often recalls how he taught me to swim and made me swim across the width of the local pool without armbands, apparently I got to within a metre of the edge before sinking. Clearly not wanting to repeat the near drowning he has done some research this time round and Fruit Shoots aside the 5 year old is loving it.

Three weeks in and she always comes home with a new tale … “Did you know that Gramps used to wear tights”. Yes I did, and this statement probably needs backing up by the fact he was under 10 and living in Scotland in the 1950’s.

I’m wondering whether I should also tell her that he also used to wear woolen swimming trunks on the beach as a toddler. The saggy and very soggy crotch used to trail behind him in the sand.

Next up was “Gramps told me that when you were little you pulled a cup of coffee over yourself and had to be taken to hospital” … she seems to find this tale morbidly fascinating. I have no recollection of the incident but know that I pulled piping hot coffee over myself after eating porridge and watching Open University (probably where my obsession with beards stems from) with my Dad at approximately 6am in the morning

I love that they are spending quality time together and that she is adding to her fond memories of her Gramps.

However, one memory it may be best for her to forget is this one …

I received an email from Gramps a couple of days after their latest lesson about lots of general stuff to do with Christmas presents and the like, at the end was this …

“I forgot to mention my Victor Meldrew moment in the communal changing rooms at the swimming baths. When I was trying to find my mobile phone which I thought I had lost (but in fact I’d left at home) I went back to the family changing cubicle that the 5 year old and I had used. I knocked on the door which swung open to reveal three pretty fit young ladies dressed in bikinis (possibly more a Benny Hill moment). I was rescued by the 5 year old. In the midst of my spluttering explanation she appeared and asked me if I had found my phone. I possibly avoided being banned from the baths.”

During aerobics classes or anything requiring me to follow another persons movements I am the one at the back doing the opposite and getting in a bluster.

The kids both start swimming lessons in September. Swimming I can do. In fact I tried aqua aerobics and loved it. Under all that water no one can see your uncoordinated flailing.

Dancing? Not unless I’ve drunk the best part of a bottle of vodka and then I probably dance like my Dad, though I can’t remember … vodka has that effect. Plus, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen my Dad dance.

I still have horrifying flashbacks to our wedding party which was held the day after our wedding in a bar. We had a wonderful 6 piece latin american style band and right at the beginning of the night they asked the husband and I to come up and dance. I was mortified. Not only was it still light outside, but due to chatting with our guests I hadn’t had the required alcohol intake not to care. It wasn’t a nice sedate number either, it was a full freestyle flamenco … I exaggerate, but it was hideous.

The husband likes to dance, he has rhythm. Friends still talk fondly of the ‘bottom dance … over handbags’ night. We’d gone out with our baby group six months after giving birth top our first babies. The ladies all put their handbags in the middle of the circle (we still do that Oop North, occasionally) and the husband shook his booty danced over all of the handbags for quite some time. At a friends wedding he got so into the groove that he grabbed the best man round the neck and swung him wildy round without a care in the world to the Happy Mondays and Step On.

Trying to give my daughter the best chance I enrolled her in freestyle dance lessons. She lasted three weeks before refusing to return. She still has nightmares about ‘the conga’. I enrolled her in ballet, thinking it would be more sedate, but no, still traumatised by the conga she clung to me. I gave up in the end and decided to let nature take it’s course. … You’ve either got it or you haven’t.

It’s something I never thought I’d say, but, let’s hope the 5 year old has inherited her father’s ‘bottom dance … over handbags’ gene.

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