The Adventures of L-Plate Bubbe: Wine & Tears

This month (April) marks the festival of Passover (Pesakh in Yiddish), when Jewish communities and families remember the story of how the Jews, led by Moses, escaped from slavery under the Egyptian ruler Pharoah. It is a festival of joy at liberation, but sorrow at the suffering that preceded it. Passover always comes before Easter. There is a reason for this and I'll explain it shortly.

The festival is celebrated by a special family meal, called a Seder, which consists of prayers, blessings, songs, giving thanks for deliverance and looking forward to the coming of the Messiah. The photo shows my Passover plate: each of the little bowls represents some symbolic item relevant to the biblical story, which is told over the course of the evening, culminating in a lovely meal. 

(You can find out more about the plate and its symbolic contents here https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/the-seder-plate/ )

The Passover meal was the one Yeshua (Jesus) took part in and is referred to in the Christian New Testament as 'The Last Supper'. This is where the two religions (or the extension of one by the other) coalesce. Christianity focuses on what happened AFTER the meal, but it is clear from reading the text, that it was a traditional Seder.

My family always used to attend synagogue for the Seder meal, which meant we kids had to behave better, couldn't leave the table for any reason whatsoever, and we got ribena instead of wine (such a disappointment). 

The whole concept of the Seder is not only to recall a very grim period in Jewish history, but to make sure the memory is passed on to future generations. Thus there is a point, early on in the celebration, when the youngest child asks 4 questions. They're called the Ma Nishtana, and revolve around querying why this night is different from other nights in food, in the way people sit at table etc. 

Every Jewish child in a religious household HAS to learn it, in case they end up being the youngest. I remember the sheer terror of realising one year that I was that child and I was going to be called upon to perform. I think being able to recite the Ma Nishtana is another of those Jewish identifiers, along with possessing your mother's recipe for chicken soup. 

It is also something that never leaves you. Even at the great age of 72, I can still, if prompted, recite the Ma Nishtana. If you are Jewish and reading this, I bet you can too!

The Adventures of L-Plate Bubbe: Homework (Jews do it backwards)

So, I have come to the conclusion that these gurus and so-called lifestyle experts who recommend learning a language in old age to keep the brain active, haven't actually tried it. As soon as a new piece of vocabulary arrives, one learned earlier disappears.

In nautical terms, we are Week 5: Still At Sea.

Luckily there are only three main tenses in Yiddish: present, past, and future, although I have discovered a fourth one, which creeps over me whenever I am faced with another piece of dialogue featuring Rokhel and Dovid, the Janet and John of my Yiddish primer.

For those who have never seen Yiddish on the page, it reads right to left, which meant initially I found myself writing the English translation back to front. Don't know what part of my brain that came from.

Then there is the vexed question of the vowels. In Hebrew, which I learned from age 7, and have now forgotten entirely, the vowels are lavish, plentiful and sit under the consonants like good helpful little soldiers. In Yiddish, they lurk in unaccustomed places or are absent without leave and you are just expected to know they are there. Even though they clearly aren't. 

The rest of the class marches on. I straggle behind them, laboriously spelling out the words letter by letter in a strangled whisper and hoping that the very sociable cat that belongs to one of the younger students will make an unexpected appearance on her screen, so we can all be distracted and I can catch up, albeit briefly.

For our current homework (Yiddish: heimarbet) we have been asked  to write about our family. The rest of the class, shiny-eyed and keen, have requested complicated lists of words like 'step grandchild', 'adopted daughter', 'same-sex couple' etc. My offering consists of four short sentences:

I have a husband. 

I have a daughter. 

She has 2 children. 

My parents are dead.

time in better get will it but

The Adventures of L-Plate Bubbe: Bus Girls

                                          

Jews are probably the most travelled people on earth, and I'm not talking air miles here. From the Diaspora to today, they have schlepped their families and belongings from one country to another, building communities, setting down roots, starting businesses, and then at the whim of a ruler, a government or a baying mob, packing up and schlepping their stuff somewhere else.

I am in New York, having schlepped myself here via American Airlines. I'm not immigrating, I'm visiting family, but I know there have been Jews coming here since the 1840s, so I'm hoping to encounter some Yiddish speakers to try out my very basic attempts at speaking.

First attempt comes while visiting the Jewish Museum close to Central Park. I spot a couple of Jewish mums with their daughters. I edge closer and ask if they 'rednt Yiddish?'  One nods. I try a bit more. She frowns, corrects my pronunciation (Two is 'zway', not 'zwei' ~I have defaulted to German again). Discouraged, I move off.

Now it's my final day in the city. The kids are back at school and I'm on the Lower East Side, visiting The Tenement Museum, one of my favourite places. I lunch at Katz, managing to try out a few basic phrases, much to the amusement of the cutter serving me.

Then back on the bus. Two stops and a couple of women my age get on. They park themselves behind me and ... whoah! they start chatting to each other in Yiddish. At least I think it's Yiddish. Now's my chance. I turn round. Take a deep breath and launch out.  "Shalon aleichem. Ick heisse Carol. Ick com fum England," I say, smiling with fake confidence.

There is a pause. I am eyed thoughtfully. Then the greeting is returned, politely. I explain about learning Yiddish at 72, and why I'm doing it. The women (we'll call them Sara and Rokhel) smile back cautiously. There is another pause. The conversation founders. 

Then inspiration hits me. "Host du ayniklakh?" (Do you have grandkids?) Immediately, their eyes light up. They nod. Suddenly, the atmosphere changes completely. Phones are dug from handbags. Photos are found, passed round. I show them my pictures in return. We coo and admire.

And all at once, we are no longer three strangers; we are united in our love for our grandchildren. There is a word for this in Yiddish: naches. It means bursting with pride over a child's achievements. So here we are, three dames of the Diaspora, three bus bubbes, sharing a moment's naches on an uptown bus in New York. 

And it makes all my linguistic struggles totally worthwhile.

The Adventures of L-Plate Bubbe: IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE BEGINNING

There are many reasons why one might decide to learn a new language in old age. The major one seems to be the incentive to stave off dementia. Struggling to master basic tenses and phrases in supposed to sharpen the synapses and keep the mind agile for longer. Ditto doing a daily Sudoku.

Neither of these is why, at the age of 72, I have decided to learn Yiddish. 

"Why are you doing this?" You Must Be Mad (now relocated to New York) asked, when I informed her this weekend, via Facetime, of my decision. "You should learn something useful."

I pointed out that I am reasonably fluent in French, can speak German as long as I don't think about it too hard and thanks to L-Plate Grandad's Italian classes, I have a smattering of Italian...though I have not mastered the pluperfect tense (neither has he).

My decision to learn Yiddish is visceral: it's the language of my tribe; it's part of my Jewish identity, which is being threatened, mocked, abused and belittled and generally ignored. Yiddish was the lingua franca of European Jewry, a way that all those in the camps could confer. My mother spoke it. My grandparents who died at Auschwitz spoke it. Now, I want to speak it too.

And there is another reason, less noble. Yiddish has probably the BEST insults and original curses of any language on earth. I mean, SERIOUSLY the best. English invective is like watered down milk in comparison. So when I tell some corrupt MP: "May you live to build yourself a house from your kidney stones" I want to be able to say it in Yiddish. Because it sounds so much better.

So I have signed up to an online language class in Basic Yiddish. It might take a while to build up to the cursing, but one has to begin somewhere. I start in 2 weeks. There will be updates. Watch this space.

 

BEING A GRANDMOTHER IS THE BEST JOB IN THE WORLD

I clearly remember the day the job started. It was summer. Bright sunshine pouring through the open window of my daughter’s London flat. We were visiting for Sunday lunch and making small talk with her lovely husband while she put the finishing touches to the meal.

Then my daughter walked in from the kitchen, carrying a dish of lasagne. She put it down on the table. She stood up and cleared her throat. ‘We have some news for you,’ she said and paused. ‘We’re expecting a baby.’

And for a second, the world stopped turning.

And then it started turning again.

But it was a new world.

I was the last of my group of friends to become a grandma. I’d congratulated, celebrated, commiserated. I’d cooed over other people’s baby pictures; peered into prams; helped them choose tiny clothes to give as presents; listened to their tales; nodded, smiled, and all the time, a small inner voice was just crying out: ‘When will it be my turn?”

The Job Begins

Ever since she turned one, I have looked after my gorgeous granddaughter two days a week from 7am to 7pm while my daughter returned to work. Currently my daughter is back home on maternity leave, having just given birth to my grandson. So now I mind ‘Little G’ for one day only.

---

Looking back over the past fourteen months, I have to say I never worked so hard, loved so hard, or laughed so hard in my life. I have never felt so exhilarated or so exhausted at the same time.

---

In the spirit of sisterhood, I offer the following thoughts for those who travel with me through this wonderful experience, or are about to start out on it.

9 Things I Love About Being a Grandma

#1: The overwhelming joy you feel when you first see your new-born grandchild.

#2: Realising that even after all those years you CAN still change a nappy and give a bottle.

#3: Sharing delight in a small stone, a bumble bee, a flower blooming in a crack in the pavement, a yellow school bus, an orange.

#4: Reaching into your bag for your mobile phone and finding:

• Crumbs
• A half-eaten packet of raisins
• A green bottle top
• A post it note with something you can’t read but it says Important at the top
• An empty snail shell
• A packet of crayons with one missing
• A feather
• Two toy cars

#5: Lying awake in the small hours just smiling and smiling over the memory of some funny thing that happened during the day. I started a blog to remember my special times with Little G. You forget so fast.

#6: Watching them enjoy eating the food you prepared for them.

#7: Singing the same song over and over because ‘again’ means ‘again’.

#8: Recalling that smile of triumph when they finally reach the top of the climbing frame all on their own for the first time.

#9: And best of all, two chubby little arms round your neck and a little voice whispering: ‘I love you, Grandma.’

So, are you a seasoned grandma or new one? Maybe you’ve just learned that you are about to become one for the first time? Please share your delights and joys of being a grandma in the comments below.

Last Christmas I Gave you My Heart (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

In answer to your unasked question: Little G's Nativity Play went down a storm. No baby was dropped. Small waved copiously and Grandma was so glowing with pride, you could have run the lights off her.

And so to Christmas. Excitement is building in You Must Be Mad's house. The tree is up. Small has not, so far, removed any of the decorations, as he did last year when he took a great fancy to a small felt dinosaur, which kept getting rescued, returned, and re-stolen.

This year, we are hosting the family, and I have decided to go for ecologically sound decorations of a 'growing in the garden' variety, so there is trailing ivy up the stairs, and holly, bay and rosemary festooning the dresser and pictures.

Christmas lunch will be a feast. Due to Small's veg phobia, diplomatic negotiations will take place beforehand over the number of peas deemed acceptable. L-Plate Granddad will set light to the Christmas Pudding, despite Health & Safety warnings, and everybody will don paper hats and tell cracker jokes that Small won't get.

However. There is a spectre at the feast. Next year, Little G & Small will be moving with You Must Be Mad, to New York to live. Six years of sharing our lives and having adventures together is going to come to an end. And under the jollity and rejoicing, the greenery, the presents, the food and fun, there will be two very broken adult hearts at the table.

But the show must go on. And it will. Because it has to.

Happy Christmas, everyone ....

Christmas Capers (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

It has been some time since I wrote about Little G and Small. Much has happened since then. For Little G and Small, growing up has happened. Small is 3 and fighting a rear-guard action against all attempts to make him eat vegetables. Little G is 5 and at her local primary school.

Reception whizzed by in a flash for Little G, and now here she is in Year 1 ~ or 'Key Stage 1' as it is called. She reads exceptionally well, but thanks to the *wonderful* National Curriculum, has no literary appreciation of what she is reading. 'What did you like about that story?' I ask after we've shared a wonderful Michael Morpurgo book about a robin. Pause. 'I saw some digraphs and trigraphs,' she says.

I will be undermining the curriculum at every stage, believe me! But that is for later on. Right now, Christmas approaches and it is time to prepare for the school Nativity Play. Last year, Little G was one of 30 innkeepers, with the rest of Reception. They wore an assortment of tunics, the ubiquitous striped tea towel head-dress and sang a jolly song about there being 'No room' at the inn, bad luck!'

This Christmas however, Little G has been selected to be Mary and we are all at peak pride. In the week, her costume arrived from school: a long pale blue dress with sparkly bits, a head-dress and a cape. If you discard the head-dress and cape, the costume can double hat as Elsa's costume from Frozen.

The ensemble was also accompanied by a Baby Jesus doll. Little G has practised holding it in such a way as not to worry any new mums in the audience. When she isn't practising, Small, who has taken rather a shine to the doll, likes to shove it down his jumper and pretend to give birth to it. That's how we roll.

We have tickets for the first performance. So next Tuesday, L-Plate Granddad and I will take our place in the school hall with other parents, grandparents and family members to watch Little G's second Nativity Play. And it will be funny and brilliant and heart-stoppingly wonderful, all at the same time. Because it always is.

Nativity 2 ~ believe your journey.

Of Mice and Moan

Every now and then Hedges Towers is invaded by mice. They come in from the cold, like in a John le Carre novel. Unlike in a John le Carre novel, they then find themselves face to face with a small tortoiseshell cat with a rodent fixation. They do not survive long. Unless I get out of bed at 3.35am in the morning and rescue them. Or as the cat thinks: join in the fun, but then selfishly take the small furry toy away.

I tracked their current invasion to under the kitchen sink. There is a square hole where the water pipes go out. After the last invasion I'd blocked it up, but fitting a new outside tap on the Summer meant it had been unblocked. I re-blocked and applied peppermint oil. Cat then spent two nights staring fixedly at the cupboard door, like a replica of that old HMV advert with a small dog and a wind-up gramophone - but this time with a cat and a cupboard.

Sadly, misfortunes like buses always arrive in pairs. I now discover that I must expend a shedload of money on new glasses.This is because our nice local optician told me on Friday that my reading glasses had basically 'had it' - I think she used some technical word, but the bottom line is, they can't bend them back into shape any more without the whole frame breaking apart. And the little nose thingies have split and cannot be replaced.

Most of the damage has been done over the years by me putting them down to do closeup reading and then lying on them. Or dropping them off various surfaces and then stepping on them while trying to find them again. The rest of the damage has been done by Little G and Small. Apparently grandchildren are a HUGE source of glasses damage. Who knew?

So a frustrating hour was spent trying on alternative glasses - frustrating because I basically want The Identical Frames and they no longer make them. And I am so flaming short sighted that I can't 'see' myself clearly in new frames without coming within licking distance of the mirror, which is undignified on so many fronts.

The frames I like: the ones where you only have actual bits at the sides, (I refuse to channel Irene Apfel) cost over £350 - I have an unerring knack of picking out the most expensive stuff. And the lenses - don't go there. Trouble is, no glasses, no writing life. Currently we are scrabbling around down the back of the sofa and tipping out the penny jar.

So, if anybody with a mouse problem wants to hire a small tortoiseshell cat - completely unreasonable rates, but mouse problem pretty well guaranteed to be solved, please apply. Elderly myopic writer needs new glasses to write blockbuster to pay for new glasses.

Nitty Gritty (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

Little G and Small LOVE their nursery and frequently bring home stuff they've made (in Small's case, with help) or paintings they've done. Sometimes, they also bring home things that are slightly less welcome. Like nits.

We have had several bouts of nits ~ refuting the myth that it's only 'poor kids whose parents don't wash their hair' who have them. You must be mad attacks the little blighters with a 'nitty gritty' comb. I don't have such an article in the house, so they tend to get gone over with the cat's flea comb, which works just as well, though the cat isn't too chuffed about it.

Small, however, is proving harder to rid of nits. His hair, now the colour of golden syrup, is thick and curling over his ears. There is a reason for this: the one and only time You must be mad took him for a haircut ~ to one of those places where you pay a small fortune for your kids to sit in cute little cars with their own personal videos, he refused to co-operate. The resultant haircut looked as if the hairdresser had been snipping at a moving target. Which is pretty much what happened.

Things have now reached a tipping point, however. Not only is there the nits sitch, but whenever Small indulges his love of dressing up as as a Pink Fairy**, complete with wings and a wand, I can get his hair into two tiny ponytails. You must be mad freely acknowledges there is a problem, but really doesn't want to go through the same rigmarole as before.

Step forward our lovely local hairdresser, who is going to give it a go on the basis that her own son was a total nightmare at a similar age, but she managed to cut his hair. Little G and I are going to do some pre-haircut indoctrination, on the lines of combing Small's hair and pretending to snip it, while chanting 'Snip...snip...snip ' in jolly voices which we will get him to repeat. L-Plate Grandad (Small's favourite person) will sit him on his lap. I will provide a selection of toys, and we will apologise to the rest of the customers in advance.
What could possibly go wrong?


** The 'Trans Activists' would tell me that Small is self- selecting his own gender. To which I say: if there are TWO dress-up fairy dresses and your big sister is wearing the WHITE one, and you like to copy her, it only leaves you the PINK one, so don't be so silly.

A Girls' Night Out (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

Now that Little G is three and a half (or as she puts it: nearly four), our relationship has moved to a new dimension. While Small potters around finding stuff and transferring it elsewhere ~ spoons, a glove, the cat tray shovel, we get on discussing the Big Things in life, like What is Friendship? (it's being nice and sharing your toys) & what Little G would do if she met someone who wasn't friendly (I'd tell them to be exactly like me, because I am a good friend).

As a reward for being exactly like herself, Little G and I recently decided we needed a Girls Night Out, because Small was going to the football with the rest of the family and L-Plate Grandad. Little G was most excited about the concept of a 'Night Out', and in the weeks running up to the Saturday when it was going to happen, she referred to it frequently.

Saturday finally arrived, and I rocked up at You Must Be Mad's, to find Little G waiting impatiently for me on the sofa. She was wearing her best little black sparkly dress (what else?) and her boots with sparkly stars on. We spent some time perusing and selecting appropriate accessories, finally coming down on the side of a silver sparkly bag and some sparkly clips. You may detect a theme here. I cannot comment.

Sparkling and excited, we walked together into town until we reached Wagamama's  ~ a place we used to go regularly when she was tiny. We selected exactly the same meal, as a homage to those far-off days, opting for spoon and fork rather than chopsticks. We know our limits. Once again, some adult diners regarded Little G's presence with antipathy, and once again, I remarked LOUDLY on the mess they were making with their chopsticks, as opposed to the neat way Little G was eating.

After dinner, happy and replete, we strolled along the high street, just two girls on the town, footloose and fancy free, pausing at intervals for Little G to re-apply her lipstick (a scented lip balm). As you do on a night out. When we'd seen and been seen sufficiently, we went for ice cream at a local coffee-shop, then home in time for bath, story and bed.

OK, maybe it wouldn't have score highly on your scale of nights out, but as the song says: 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun'. And we did.

Just Plane Crazy (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

If we wanted to, L-Plate Grandad and I could spend all day ferrying Small and Little G from one organised activity to another, such is the wide and varied choice available locally. Playgroup might morph into Baby Sensory Club, then on to Music Time, Baby Yoga, Rhythm Time, Mini Mindfulness and so on. However, as these all cost money, and we are on a pension and mean, we refuse to pay out for stuff when we can amuse us and them for free.

One of our favourite free haunts is the local playground, recently refurbished. Little G is an experienced playgrounder, and can be safely left to work her way round the various things on offer, with only the occasional encouraging remark. Small, however, needs constant supervision as he has no fear, less sense and is reluctant to do any serious risk analysis before launching himself off the end of things he has clambered up.

Once we are all playgrounded out, we often drive to another favourite location: the end of the runway at Luton Airport. There, ensconced behind a mesh fence, we can watch the planes arriving and taking off. Little G and Small bring their two toy planes, and wave them in the air enthusiastically, making plane noises. Little G is now quite expert with the vocab, and can talk about 'control towers' and 'wheels down'. She can identify a Whizz plane from an EasyJet one, and a few weeks ago, we managed to see the last few scheduled Monarch flights going out.

Watching the planes is not just popular with us. Whatever time of day we turn up, and whatever the weather, there is always a line of cars parked by the fence, with men (mainly) with binoculars, flasks and sandwiches sitting in folding chairs along the perimeter. Some even have step-ladders and perch on the top step, like umpires at Wimbledon. It is clear that when it comes to watching planes take off and land, we are all just small kids at heart. Though two of us actually are.

A Letter to my Granddaughter, Age 3

Dear Avalyn Grace

Today, Friday 24th of February marks your 3rd birthday. You've had a letter from me every year of your life (this is the one I wrote when you were 6 months old) and you have been the inspiration for a whole series of blog posts describing our rather eccentric adventures together. So here's another letter from me to you.

The biggest change in your world right now ~ well, in all our worlds, is that you have a gorgeous little baby brother who worships you unquestioningly and unconditionally. Make the most of it because as soon as he starts walking, you're in for trouble!

Other changes: we've migrated from the Purple Buggy with a Mind of Its Own to a second hand collapsible buggy with dodgy brakes, which always go at roundabouts when we're travelling to my house, skeetering you across the bus at high speed and sending me into a panic. You find it terribly funny.

You are also a fully paid-up member of the Accessorize Club. You have a box of tiaras, crowns, necklaces and headbands. Yes, You Must Be Mad has tried to bring you up in a pinkless gender-neutral environment, but you have managed to tunnel your way out. Now each one of our adventures begins with a selection of appropriate bling to accompany it. I have to confess to being slightly envious: I'd secretly love to wander round Sainsburys in a tiara and sparkly boots, though I remind myself that I may yet come to it in my dotage.

For your birthday, you are going to the zoo ~ which you are looking forward to huguely as it has a soft play area with a gigantic slide. Animals? Well yes, there will be some animals obviously, but let's get our priorities right. There will also be a party in your house at some future date when the 'hand/foot & mouth' virus that I, in my ignorance, thought only occurred in cattle, has run its course.

As we approach our third year together, I look back and see how much you have taught me: your ability to live in the now; to find amazement and fun in mundane and ordinary things. Your life may be very circumscribed in one sense, but it is crammed with wonder, joy and delight because that is how you choose to experience it.

Happy Birthday, my special girl. You have inspired and entertained us all ever since you arrived in this world. Long may you continue to do so. As for the thought that your next birthday marks the end of our carefree adventures together, and the start of your schooldays ~ well, we're not going to think about it, are we?

Sugar, sugar (Grandma moments)

Ever since she was born, Little G has been on a 'low sugar' diet. Chocolate and sweets, cake, desserts and sweetened drinks have been rationed or not introduced. This is mainly because she is not a big fan of brushing her teeth, and will only do it reluctantly and while watching a Frozen video on You must be mad's phone.

Plus we have all seen the news clips of very small children having to have their rotten milk teeth pulled out in hospital. Little G hasn't seen them, of course, but the rest of us have been suitably scared. Mind you, as the wife of a diabetic, I am amazed by the amount of hidden sugar that lurks in most food nowadays. Bread, fish fingers, pies all contain sugar - sometimes disguised as dextrose, maltose or anything else ending in 'ose'.

However Little G is now three, and the odd sugary treat comes her way in the form of ice cream, the occasional chocolate penny, and homemade or otherwise cake. Interestingly, if she has too much sugary food, she gets very hyper, which I had never witnessed until last week, when I rashly gave her a big jammy biscuit mid-afternoon for her snack.

Having licked out all the jam, we then set off to get the bus back home. I think it was the loud singing that alerted me. Followed by the 'I don't want this toy throwing', and the point blank refusal to sit quietly and look at the nice cars. Little Hyde was making her presence known.

I wondered fleetingly as I hauled her noisily off the bus, what the rest of the passengers were thinking. I wanted to turn round and tell them: sugar rush! But it made me ponder how many of the badly behaved fractious children I see every day are suffering from sugar overload.

Maybe a low sugar diet might be better than a dose of Ritalin and a diagnosis of some behavioural problem that will follow them round for the rest of their life? Just a thought.

Walk the Walk (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

Forget Pilates, Yogalates or any other kind of lattes. If you want to stay fit over 60, the trick is to acquire a small grandchild. Little G and I walk for miles and miles. Or rather I walk (active) and Little G is walked (passive). Up hills, down hills, through the park we go. Into town and back. Then into town again because I forgot to buy something You must be mad has asked me to get.

I watch the joggers pass us by with scorn. Lightweights, I think. They should try pushing a buggy full of baby, shopping, nappy bag, snacks, toys, my handbag and the kitchen sink. Then they'd know what fitness really was. Same for the group of bendy wendies who do Tai Chi in the park in their smart hooded sweats. Get a life; get a granddaughter, I snarl (silently) as we stride past.

As for developing middle age spread or any age spread - I wish. You want to lose weight? Acquire a small grandchild. Meals are something I view in hindsight, as in: did I have any lunch? (The answer is usually no). Little G eats like a queen. I finish her crusts and leftovers. Unless we're saving them for the ducks. Round here, the ducks eat better than I do.

If only I could tell my fat diffident teenage self that one day I'd be rocking size 10 skinny jeans and have cheekbones you could abseil off. Sadly I'd also have to tell her that as I'm over 60 and pushing a buggy, in the misquoted words of Rhett Butler, ''nobody could give a damn.''


To be continued ...  ...

Getting Crotchety in the Library (The Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

When I was Little G's age (1951 if you MUST know) babies were left in playpens or Silver Cross prams, preferably outside in all weathers, until they went to school. Fast forward 64 years and it's a totally different world.

Before she left London, Little G had been to Baby Massage, Baby Yoga, Baby Art and Baby Cinema. And then there was all the musical stuff: Baby Bach, Mini Mozart and Tiny Tchaikovsky. OK, I made up the last two, but you get the picture.

As I don't want her to inhabit the same cultural wilderness that I grew up in, we have started rocking up to Baby Rhyme Time at the local library. The best way I can describe it is Last Night of the Proms for under 2s, conducted by a nice children's librarian and a large blue teddy bear.

The audience consists of a variety of screamers, crawlers, shufflers, lurchers, topplers and their minders: a few yummy mummies, one lone daddy and a lot of nannies and Eastern European au pairs. Now augmented by me and Little G

Little G loves it. She sits on the floor, propped up by me in case of spillage, and waves our bus ticket enthusiastically while burbling something that bears no resemblance whatsoever to what the librarian and the rest of the adult participants are singing.

Because we SING. Oh yes. Songs about speckled frogs, songs about currant buns, songs about body parts, and a song about some elderly Scottish bloke who had a farm. Cultural wilderness? Not on my watch.

To be continued ... ...