Craic On

The Son and the DiL are having a night off. They are going to wear grown up clothes, for possibly the very last time in a couple of decades, before driving half way across the south of England to attend a wedding, on a Wednesday. I am now in training to step in and offer soothing words when the inevitable happens and the Grand wakes up just as I am reaching the limit of my ability to stay awake. At this point he will inevitably begin to cry. The cry will turn into sobs as he chokes on the words, “I want Mama.” All my Granny skills will be called upon. The greatest of which is a tried and tested soothing technique in which The Grand commands, between sobs, “Pat bum bum.” In desperation, I do as commanded while I sit awkwardly, shoulder stretched and aching and back beginning to seize up. This could be a big physiotherapy bill. Training means many things: it means going to pick the Grand up from nursery a couple of times, just to be sure I know what I’m doing. In view of the amount of parental hounding a two-