There I was, digging a hole. Hole in the ground. Bernard Cribbins might not have made the best Pop star, but his portrayal of lovable grandparent Wilfred Mott in the recent Doctor Who revival bought a tear to my eye. Of course, I don’t watch Doctor Who, but well, but if it’s on when I do the ironing, then so be it. Good old Wilfred, looking after his mouthy, Ginger granddaughter as she bumbles around in a blue box with a man who is entirely too skinny and needs a good breakfast in him.
With Christmas fast approaching we are all going to be relying on our extended support networks to help with the kids. After the summer holidays, when my tribe terrorise my parents for nearly two months (“oh no dear, we love having them”), Christmas has got to be the time they look forward to and dread in equal measures as they are mobbed by two very excited young boys demanding the attention of their very favourite houseguests. The boys know it as well, and take special care to love their grandparents presents the best (“those £100 bikes you got us are ok as well mum…”).
National grandparents day was in October, but I think we got it wrong. We should have a moment of silence straight after Christmas lunch in honour of grandparents everywhere. In the sleepy period after the Queens speech and before the Doctor Who Christmas Special, I will certainly be raising a sneaky glass of Sherry to the brave souls who are now flaked out on the sofa, surrounded by discarded toys, wrapping paper and two very happy, tired young boys.
And over the annual game of Monopoly, when my Mum innocently suggests that the Turkey could have been a little bit moister, and my Dad sneaks off for a sneaky Christmas cigar (“Just admiring your garden love”) I will resist temptation to place an extra House on Park Lane, and gracefully let her win. Here’s to Grandparents everywhere – in my house Christmas is very much about the Children, but I think my parents enjoy it nearly as much!
Have a lovely evening, Allysia.