What sort of summer have you had? I've had a great time - so, for those who are weeping into their beer and don't need to read of other people having fun - here's a spoiler: mine has been so wonderful I have to retreat to Devon for a week to recover.
It's not that I've had adventures. There have been no tigers or crocodiles or blue-footed-boobies. I've not even caught a flight to somewhere exotic (though I have bought one). If I unpick my summer busyness there's not been much that was exceptional about it.
Though, to be fair, the visit from Tika and Shobha was exceptional. It's not every week friends from Nepal are able to fly over to see me! So there was plenty of preliminary planning and general excitement and numerous changes of plan and finally some lovely days sharing the delights of Wiltshire!
I've also spent countless wonderful days with grandchildren. I remember, when my children were small, I had no idea why my parents should be quite so besotted and able to drop everything as soon as a small person appeared. Now - I get it. I don't have to worry about work and school and if they need new shoes or how I must remember to ring the plumber. Grandparents have the luxury of time - we can pick up the rest of our lives when they go home (after wine and a good sleep to recover).
But the summer has been even more than grandchildren and visitors from Nepal. I've spent four days at cricket matches - which doesn't sound much, but, when you include the planning, the analysis, and general exchange of views about Buttler vs Bairstow, it has consumed days.
Nothing truly significant? - grandchildren and visitors and cricket. But I've loved every minute of it. But now I'm knackered and need a holiday to recover from the holidays.
So I've escaped to Devon, to wander about by the sea and read books. If I had remembered to bring the thingy that connects my phone to my iPad I'd be able to give you a photo - you will have to wait till next week for pictures.
I do know how lucky I am, being able to take off like this. What do you do, when you need a holiday to recover from the holidays?
Showing posts with label grandchildren. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grandchildren. Show all posts
Sunday, 11 September 2016
Sunday, 24 July 2016
Summer holidays - yippee!
The schools are quiet. Children and young people stroll along the High Street in my market town - often with a supervising grandparent in tow.
So it's time for a blog-break till the Autumn. I shall still be reading and writing. But I shall also use the long days to flop about in the sun:
To watch cricket:
And to play with grandchildren:
All of this add up, in my corner of the world, to the best sort of summer holidays! What about you?
So it's time for a blog-break till the Autumn. I shall still be reading and writing. But I shall also use the long days to flop about in the sun:
To watch cricket:
And to play with grandchildren:
All of this add up, in my corner of the world, to the best sort of summer holidays! What about you?
Monday, 3 August 2015
Children Matter.
This post is late this week.
I'll not apologise, for my days have been full of grandchildren - preparing for their visit, managing the fun while they were here, and collapsing in a heap once they'd gone. But there should never be apologies for children.
You'll have to imagine the wonderfulness of my weekend. You only need to know that I have the most intelligent, beautiful, creative, athletic and loving grandchildren in the world.
Having established that, I want to take it one step further. Because, in spite of the position my own grandchildren have in the general scheme of things, I would suggest that all children should take priority.
For instance, when a family is eating together in a restaurant, children's meals should arrive first. Adults understand waiting, that their turn with come, that they will not be overlooked. They also know that it's easier to chop up a child's sausages when the table isn't laden with their own food, vegetables, and a bottle of wine.
For instance, anyone with a biggish buggy, or a double, has as much right to linger in the aisles of supermarkets, or stroll down the street, as anyone else. How else are parents meant to do their shopping? They shouldn't have to apologise to anyone, simply because they need to bring their children out in public.
Why does it matter so much? I know I worked in Child Protection, and so I spent my working life thinking of the child's point of view. So it's hardly surprising that's a habit I don't want to break.
But it's more than that. It's more than the cliche about children being our future and so we need to invest in them. It's more than recognising that if they aren't educated etc they'll not do the work we need them to do in order to fund our pensions.
It's about children bringing energy, and surprise, and curiosity. They remind us that earwigs, and sunflowers, and bits of stick all have a place in the world. They examine a ladybird with the same attention as a jeweller might give a diamond. They shush (though rarely for long) just to watch a squirrel run up a tree. They ask endless questions, for their world is new and different and wonderful.
Sometimes I watch the men and women in suits and think that what they really need is a dose of children. It is children who remind us that the world need not be driven by money. That the life cycle of the snail can be as absorbing as a need for speed. That rules are fine when they provide a framework but not when followed without question.
In short, I think some adults need a bit of a kick up the bum, and children - given the opportunity - can be so good at that!
I'll not apologise, for my days have been full of grandchildren - preparing for their visit, managing the fun while they were here, and collapsing in a heap once they'd gone. But there should never be apologies for children.
You'll have to imagine the wonderfulness of my weekend. You only need to know that I have the most intelligent, beautiful, creative, athletic and loving grandchildren in the world.
Having established that, I want to take it one step further. Because, in spite of the position my own grandchildren have in the general scheme of things, I would suggest that all children should take priority.
For instance, when a family is eating together in a restaurant, children's meals should arrive first. Adults understand waiting, that their turn with come, that they will not be overlooked. They also know that it's easier to chop up a child's sausages when the table isn't laden with their own food, vegetables, and a bottle of wine.
For instance, anyone with a biggish buggy, or a double, has as much right to linger in the aisles of supermarkets, or stroll down the street, as anyone else. How else are parents meant to do their shopping? They shouldn't have to apologise to anyone, simply because they need to bring their children out in public.
Why does it matter so much? I know I worked in Child Protection, and so I spent my working life thinking of the child's point of view. So it's hardly surprising that's a habit I don't want to break.
But it's more than that. It's more than the cliche about children being our future and so we need to invest in them. It's more than recognising that if they aren't educated etc they'll not do the work we need them to do in order to fund our pensions.
It's about children bringing energy, and surprise, and curiosity. They remind us that earwigs, and sunflowers, and bits of stick all have a place in the world. They examine a ladybird with the same attention as a jeweller might give a diamond. They shush (though rarely for long) just to watch a squirrel run up a tree. They ask endless questions, for their world is new and different and wonderful.
Sometimes I watch the men and women in suits and think that what they really need is a dose of children. It is children who remind us that the world need not be driven by money. That the life cycle of the snail can be as absorbing as a need for speed. That rules are fine when they provide a framework but not when followed without question.
In short, I think some adults need a bit of a kick up the bum, and children - given the opportunity - can be so good at that!
Wednesday, 2 July 2014
Not all men are tossers, though some are.
I know I said I wouldn't write about Child Protection and the work that I did - and I meant it.
But the recent conviction of Rolf Harris has raised so many issues I thought I'd float a few of them here.
He presented as hugely likeable - and I'm sure that all those who never saw his 'darker side' had great fun with him. He was musical and talented and could make people laugh. Some blokes are good at that. Nothing can ever excuse the way he used his talents to abuse young women and children.
Some blokes are good at other stuff. They build things or make things or write things or dig their gardens or milk cows. They play music and read books and fall asleep in front of the telly. They cook the tea and play with their kids and read the newspaper and play on their computers. They are generally good blokes.
When I was working there were times when it felt as if all men were total plonkers - or worse. If anyone I didn't know well came near my children I went into fight-mode. Don't you dare pick up her ball for her, nor commiserate with a scraped knee. That sort of thing.
Since I stopped working I've met men of many more shapes and sizes and learned that - yes, some are still plonkers or worse. The Rolf Harrises of this world still lurk around children's playgrounds and in the swimming pools. They still sidle up to children and offer sweets and smiles and make them laugh. Parents must still be vigilant.
But most men aren't like that. Most men work and love and laugh and would need holding back in chains if they thought anyone would harm a child. There are more decent blokes around than tossers, even though the newspapers might have us believe otherwise.
And so, while nothing can ever diminish the harm that Rolf Harris has done, let's not tar all friendly men with his brushes. No one is perfect, but most of us (men and women) are good enough.
Now - that really is my last word on Child Protection. For I really ought to be marketing my vultures.
But the recent conviction of Rolf Harris has raised so many issues I thought I'd float a few of them here.
He presented as hugely likeable - and I'm sure that all those who never saw his 'darker side' had great fun with him. He was musical and talented and could make people laugh. Some blokes are good at that. Nothing can ever excuse the way he used his talents to abuse young women and children.
Some blokes are good at other stuff. They build things or make things or write things or dig their gardens or milk cows. They play music and read books and fall asleep in front of the telly. They cook the tea and play with their kids and read the newspaper and play on their computers. They are generally good blokes.
When I was working there were times when it felt as if all men were total plonkers - or worse. If anyone I didn't know well came near my children I went into fight-mode. Don't you dare pick up her ball for her, nor commiserate with a scraped knee. That sort of thing.
Since I stopped working I've met men of many more shapes and sizes and learned that - yes, some are still plonkers or worse. The Rolf Harrises of this world still lurk around children's playgrounds and in the swimming pools. They still sidle up to children and offer sweets and smiles and make them laugh. Parents must still be vigilant.
But most men aren't like that. Most men work and love and laugh and would need holding back in chains if they thought anyone would harm a child. There are more decent blokes around than tossers, even though the newspapers might have us believe otherwise.
And so, while nothing can ever diminish the harm that Rolf Harris has done, let's not tar all friendly men with his brushes. No one is perfect, but most of us (men and women) are good enough.
Now - that really is my last word on Child Protection. For I really ought to be marketing my vultures.
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
Let me introduce you to ...
My granddaughter. You know of the boys - but I rarely write about her. She lives closer; I see her regularly, so the world doesn't stop for her visits.
But that doesn't mean you shouldn't know of her wonderfulness.
She's three. And I think this episode will tell you all you need to know:
My daughter and I were driving (I forget where) and the little one wanted to get out to play. No said my daughter, explaining - with extreme patience and clarity - that it was raining, and we had other things we needed to do.
The child asked again, and again. And my daughter explained, explained - there was no question of her changing her mind, so this wasn't a child carrying on in the hope of getting Mum to let her out to play anyway. Rather, she wasn't actually listening - explanations, for her, are not the point. She wanted to get out, discover the rain for herself.
I flashed back to her mother, as a little girl. To my explanations, to the endless questions, to the not listening. To her overwhelming need to explore the world for herself, to make her own mistakes. She needed the rain on her face, not on the windows.
Like daughter, like granddaughter.
She stands up to face the world with the clear expectation it will welcome her. Luck girl: she has a family to cheer her on, and pick her up if the world lets her down.
But that doesn't mean you shouldn't know of her wonderfulness.
She's three. And I think this episode will tell you all you need to know:
My daughter and I were driving (I forget where) and the little one wanted to get out to play. No said my daughter, explaining - with extreme patience and clarity - that it was raining, and we had other things we needed to do.
The child asked again, and again. And my daughter explained, explained - there was no question of her changing her mind, so this wasn't a child carrying on in the hope of getting Mum to let her out to play anyway. Rather, she wasn't actually listening - explanations, for her, are not the point. She wanted to get out, discover the rain for herself.
I flashed back to her mother, as a little girl. To my explanations, to the endless questions, to the not listening. To her overwhelming need to explore the world for herself, to make her own mistakes. She needed the rain on her face, not on the windows.
Like daughter, like granddaughter.
She stands up to face the world with the clear expectation it will welcome her. Luck girl: she has a family to cheer her on, and pick her up if the world lets her down.
Sunday, 3 November 2013
How do you do mornings?
It's November, and some of you will be up before dawn to write you 1500 words or more for your NaNoWriMo. (If that's a mystery to you, check it out here.)
Others, of course, will be up early for work - you are on the early shift at the hospital or steel plant (do we still have any steel plants?), or have babies who wake at any hour of the day or night. You have no choice but to crawl from the covers before the lark.
So - do you growl, then creep from under the duvet, dress without speaking, drink tea or coffee without thinking and force your body into the street believing that your head will wake eventually and catch up? Or can you rub your eyes, turn the light on, and welcome the new day with a stretching exercise or two?
You NaNo writers - how awake are you at this early hour? Some are probably writing in their sleep while others fire on all cylinders. (I salute you all!)
Me - I'm not NaNo-ing. I'm a tea-in-bed-before-I'm-human sort of woman. I scribble a page of rubbish while the kettle boils - it's handwritten, and reminds me that I love to write, rather than a glimpse of insight or literary merit. Then I read until hunger drives me from my bed in search of breakfast. Even then I can linger, stare from the window - I have a view across the valley to the forest from my bed. The beech tree just beyond my garden tells me all I need to know about the seasons and the weather - today it is still, and somewhat forlorn.
But, last week, when grandchildren were here, all that changed. Daughter hemmed them in until seven o'clock; then they were told to tiptoe into my room to see if I was awake. My bedroom door was flung open; crash. GRANDMA!!!!!! Three small boys piled in. I made tea (of course), taking a cup in to daughter in the hope that she might have twenty minutes peace (she earns it!) and we watched Bob the Builder and Postman Pat, in bed, the boys eating bowl after bowl of dry cereal, cuddled beside me. (Two days later and I am still finding Cheerios in the folds of my duvet). There are worse ways to start the day.
How does yours begin?
Others, of course, will be up early for work - you are on the early shift at the hospital or steel plant (do we still have any steel plants?), or have babies who wake at any hour of the day or night. You have no choice but to crawl from the covers before the lark.
So - do you growl, then creep from under the duvet, dress without speaking, drink tea or coffee without thinking and force your body into the street believing that your head will wake eventually and catch up? Or can you rub your eyes, turn the light on, and welcome the new day with a stretching exercise or two?
You NaNo writers - how awake are you at this early hour? Some are probably writing in their sleep while others fire on all cylinders. (I salute you all!)
Me - I'm not NaNo-ing. I'm a tea-in-bed-before-I'm-human sort of woman. I scribble a page of rubbish while the kettle boils - it's handwritten, and reminds me that I love to write, rather than a glimpse of insight or literary merit. Then I read until hunger drives me from my bed in search of breakfast. Even then I can linger, stare from the window - I have a view across the valley to the forest from my bed. The beech tree just beyond my garden tells me all I need to know about the seasons and the weather - today it is still, and somewhat forlorn.
But, last week, when grandchildren were here, all that changed. Daughter hemmed them in until seven o'clock; then they were told to tiptoe into my room to see if I was awake. My bedroom door was flung open; crash. GRANDMA!!!!!! Three small boys piled in. I made tea (of course), taking a cup in to daughter in the hope that she might have twenty minutes peace (she earns it!) and we watched Bob the Builder and Postman Pat, in bed, the boys eating bowl after bowl of dry cereal, cuddled beside me. (Two days later and I am still finding Cheerios in the folds of my duvet). There are worse ways to start the day.
How does yours begin?
Sunday, 27 October 2013
Half term, in all its wonderfulness.
It's half term. Some of you will be girded for a change in routine; others will wonder what the fuss is about.
When I was at school, life was punctuated by terms, and half terms - there was general agreement that holidays were wonderful and school was dreary, and I'm not going to nitpick that now for of course it's not as simple as all that.
Then I went to university. We didn't have holidays any more; we had vacations - which are much more grown up. But terms were also wonderful, partly because the learning was interesting (at last) and partly because being a student in the late 1960s was just the very best thing to be.
I went to work. Suddenly there were just seasons. Interruptions were confined to Christmas and Easter and a week or so in the summer (taken to fit in with others who had children - which never bothered me. I didn't need to fight my way to Cornwall on the M4 in August, and they did.)
Then I had my own children. Terms were time when I could juggle work and home more easily - but came with their own stresses, like homework. (I was pretty rubbish at homework when I was at school myself; by the time my own children had it I was useless.) I loved school holidays - I'd take as much time off as possible and play. There were never enough time for playing.
The children grew, as children do. Life returned to its seasonal fluctuations; I recognised that winter is not my best time of year and so began to go walkabout when the nights are at their longest. No longer would I notice terms, nor half terms ...
But now I have grandchildren. And this half term, three of them are coming. Some of you know of the six-year old - he is bringing his twin brothers (aged two), and his mum. Where will we all sleep? Have I bought enough tins of beans, sausages, ice creams? Will my neighbours bang on the wall when we make too much noise (that's very unlikely, as I have wonderful neighbours)? Will we lose a child playing hide and seek in the garden (that's quite likely)? Is the river too angry after the storm for us to play in it? Have I sharpened the pencils, got enough rough paper, thought of a story or two?
Oh, how wonderful it will be!
You'll understand if I'm not around for the rest of the week - I have much more important things to do. It is, after all, half term.
When I was at school, life was punctuated by terms, and half terms - there was general agreement that holidays were wonderful and school was dreary, and I'm not going to nitpick that now for of course it's not as simple as all that.
Then I went to university. We didn't have holidays any more; we had vacations - which are much more grown up. But terms were also wonderful, partly because the learning was interesting (at last) and partly because being a student in the late 1960s was just the very best thing to be.
I went to work. Suddenly there were just seasons. Interruptions were confined to Christmas and Easter and a week or so in the summer (taken to fit in with others who had children - which never bothered me. I didn't need to fight my way to Cornwall on the M4 in August, and they did.)
Then I had my own children. Terms were time when I could juggle work and home more easily - but came with their own stresses, like homework. (I was pretty rubbish at homework when I was at school myself; by the time my own children had it I was useless.) I loved school holidays - I'd take as much time off as possible and play. There were never enough time for playing.
The children grew, as children do. Life returned to its seasonal fluctuations; I recognised that winter is not my best time of year and so began to go walkabout when the nights are at their longest. No longer would I notice terms, nor half terms ...
But now I have grandchildren. And this half term, three of them are coming. Some of you know of the six-year old - he is bringing his twin brothers (aged two), and his mum. Where will we all sleep? Have I bought enough tins of beans, sausages, ice creams? Will my neighbours bang on the wall when we make too much noise (that's very unlikely, as I have wonderful neighbours)? Will we lose a child playing hide and seek in the garden (that's quite likely)? Is the river too angry after the storm for us to play in it? Have I sharpened the pencils, got enough rough paper, thought of a story or two?
Oh, how wonderful it will be!
You'll understand if I'm not around for the rest of the week - I have much more important things to do. It is, after all, half term.
Sunday, 28 July 2013
I may be a little while ...
Yes, this is still me - with a new blog title and a picture (I worked out how to do it, at last!), the same address - what do you think? Better? Or shall I go back to the old look?
This will be my only blogpost this week. For today my grandson is coming to stay.
This week I shall eat a lot of baked beans and chips. And probably ice cream. I might pretend vegetables come from Mars and are essential for anyone who hopes to be an astronaut; or I might give in and eat more baked beans.
When the sun shines I shall play in the river and when it rains there will be games and maybe there will be cheating but it doesn't matter, for he is my grandson and can do no wrong. I shall polish my goalkeeping skills, but be forever useless (dive, grandma, dive ...). I shall be woken at daybreak and maybe he will tell me that his clock is broken, though in truth he has taken the battery out, but it doesn't matter for he is my grandson and can do no wrong.
I shall sit in the front seat on the top deck of the bus and pretend to drive. And if he sings about the wheels on the bus very loudly that is fine for he is my grandson and can do no wrong. We shall arrive very early to catch a train; but I'll not let him run around on the platform for that is dangerous, even for little boys who can do no wrong.
This week I shall do no writing.
And when there is reading it will be stories for six-year olds.
This will be my only blogpost this week. For today my grandson is coming to stay.
This week I shall eat a lot of baked beans and chips. And probably ice cream. I might pretend vegetables come from Mars and are essential for anyone who hopes to be an astronaut; or I might give in and eat more baked beans.
When the sun shines I shall play in the river and when it rains there will be games and maybe there will be cheating but it doesn't matter, for he is my grandson and can do no wrong. I shall polish my goalkeeping skills, but be forever useless (dive, grandma, dive ...). I shall be woken at daybreak and maybe he will tell me that his clock is broken, though in truth he has taken the battery out, but it doesn't matter for he is my grandson and can do no wrong.
I shall sit in the front seat on the top deck of the bus and pretend to drive. And if he sings about the wheels on the bus very loudly that is fine for he is my grandson and can do no wrong. We shall arrive very early to catch a train; but I'll not let him run around on the platform for that is dangerous, even for little boys who can do no wrong.
This week I shall do no writing.
And when there is reading it will be stories for six-year olds.
Sunday, 26 August 2012
Grandchildren and other important stuff.
Those of you who called in last week will know that my grandson came to stay. Yes, we had a wonderful time; and yes, I was exhausted when he left - but it was worth every minute.
And not just because it was fun (though it was). It was also a reminder why children are so very precious.
I remember, as an adolescent, being mystified when adults insisted that charities raising money for children were so important. I argued that they are simply a component of the continuum of being human and therefore no more or less significant than anyone else. Up to a point I still think that - we should celebrate the needs of everyone, whatever their age or contribution. I don't quite buy the argument that children should take priority because they will grow up to work, to build an economy that will pay for our pensions.
Yet they are, indeed, precious. Why?
As we walked into town, my grandson ran ahead to press the button at the traffic lights. A simple, everyday task suddenly a matter of importance. As we crossed The Green he spotted a ladybird, squatted to watch as it climbed onto a leaf and finally crawl off into the grass. He learned the difference between a dock leaf and a stinging nettle (the hard way). We sat on the top deck of the bus and counted flags. He perched on a beanbag in the bookshop and spent twenty minutes in the serious business of choosing. His response to his small cousin falling in the mud was not to reach for the wipes and spare clothes, but to laugh (as did she.) The small cousin, I must add, is my granddaughter - a determined, feisty little girl who is making the most of being two. With such a clear mind of her own now, she'll be ready to take on the world when she's twenty. Which will not surprised those of you who have come across Anna - her mother.
When did you last gaze at a ladybird - without a child in tow? Or press the button at the crossing and wonder if it will be the red car or the blue that will stop? That glorious living-in-the-moment that allows you to notice everything as if for the first time. The excitement that comes with the realisation that every day is full of possibilities.
I have spent a week with countless wonderful reminders of just how astonishing the world can be.
He will, of course, grow up. Like the rest of us, he will come to take much of the world for granted. Until, of course, he has children of his own.
And not just because it was fun (though it was). It was also a reminder why children are so very precious.
I remember, as an adolescent, being mystified when adults insisted that charities raising money for children were so important. I argued that they are simply a component of the continuum of being human and therefore no more or less significant than anyone else. Up to a point I still think that - we should celebrate the needs of everyone, whatever their age or contribution. I don't quite buy the argument that children should take priority because they will grow up to work, to build an economy that will pay for our pensions.
Yet they are, indeed, precious. Why?
As we walked into town, my grandson ran ahead to press the button at the traffic lights. A simple, everyday task suddenly a matter of importance. As we crossed The Green he spotted a ladybird, squatted to watch as it climbed onto a leaf and finally crawl off into the grass. He learned the difference between a dock leaf and a stinging nettle (the hard way). We sat on the top deck of the bus and counted flags. He perched on a beanbag in the bookshop and spent twenty minutes in the serious business of choosing. His response to his small cousin falling in the mud was not to reach for the wipes and spare clothes, but to laugh (as did she.) The small cousin, I must add, is my granddaughter - a determined, feisty little girl who is making the most of being two. With such a clear mind of her own now, she'll be ready to take on the world when she's twenty. Which will not surprised those of you who have come across Anna - her mother.
When did you last gaze at a ladybird - without a child in tow? Or press the button at the crossing and wonder if it will be the red car or the blue that will stop? That glorious living-in-the-moment that allows you to notice everything as if for the first time. The excitement that comes with the realisation that every day is full of possibilities.
I have spent a week with countless wonderful reminders of just how astonishing the world can be.
He will, of course, grow up. Like the rest of us, he will come to take much of the world for granted. Until, of course, he has children of his own.
Sunday, 19 August 2012
Some things are more important ...
Some things are more important than blogging, or tweeting, or writing, or travelling ...
What!!!! Surely not - I mean, I'm a writer, and traveller - they are the core of who I am.
But this week my grandson is coming to stay. I have four grandchildren. I have seen the Taj Mahal, I tell them. But do I know the difference between a tinky-winky and a ninky-nonk? (No.) I've trekked in the Himalayas, I tell them. But can I do a back-flip-thing with a football? (No.) I've written a book, I tell them. Does it have pictures? (No.) I've been close to a tiger, I tell them. Then a daughter glares with a look that says don't you dare tell them about the tiger.
My grandson is five. His world is full of the wonder of playgrounds, of football, of ice cream and toy cars and lego. So, for a week, that is what my world will be full of too.
I will be gone for a few days. There really are more important things than blogging:
For this week my grandson is coming to stay.
What!!!! Surely not - I mean, I'm a writer, and traveller - they are the core of who I am.
But this week my grandson is coming to stay. I have four grandchildren. I have seen the Taj Mahal, I tell them. But do I know the difference between a tinky-winky and a ninky-nonk? (No.) I've trekked in the Himalayas, I tell them. But can I do a back-flip-thing with a football? (No.) I've written a book, I tell them. Does it have pictures? (No.) I've been close to a tiger, I tell them. Then a daughter glares with a look that says don't you dare tell them about the tiger.
My grandson is five. His world is full of the wonder of playgrounds, of football, of ice cream and toy cars and lego. So, for a week, that is what my world will be full of too.
I will be gone for a few days. There really are more important things than blogging:
For this week my grandson is coming to stay.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)