Might you want to stop for a wee at Norton Canes?' asks my husband.
"Probably," I say. We usually get to the services on the Toll Road near lunchtime, and this one has a Leon so I can get an halloumi wrap.
"OK. I can stick some screenwash in when we're there,' he informs me.
This thrilling exchange is a pretty standard example of what passes for conversation on the weekly, five hundred mile round trip that we make, between our home in the North West of England and that of our youngest daughter, in East London.
Now, you might be thinking we're lacking in imagination, if this is the best we can come up with by way of banter. But we've been doing this trip for well over a year now, and we've pretty much exhausted our stock of fascinating subjects for debate. And the route is now so wretchedly familiar that we're sometimes reduced to such gems as, "I think there are more sheep in that field than there were last week." Bleak, yeah?
So we listen to music and radio plays and the miles pass. Mile after mile after frigging mile.Through the roadworks and the accident holdups, in rain, shine and snow. My only consolation an halloumi wrap.
And why are we subjecting ourselves to this ordeal, you might be wondering? I'll tell you why.There is a reward, at the end of our journey, in the form of a tiny girl, with a load of messy curls, an iron will, a cheeky smile and a of love of raisins, The Gruffalo, her wellies and, happily, her Grandparents. And for two days a week we provide her childcare. Not that I think of it in terms of that bald word. I see it more as larking about and having a laugh in great company. It's more than adequate recompense for the hell of the M6.
What I find interesting is the variety of reactions I get from friends and acquaintances when I mention this weekly ritual. It varies between disbelief at our stupidity, admiration for our devotion, and degrees of bewilderment in between. I've also been told that I'm a fool for allowing my daughter to exploit me. To which I say, "Fuck off!" It's insulting to suggest I've been in some way coerced into the job. I made the offer of help shortly after my youngest granddaughter was born. My two older grandchildren were born on the other side of the world and spent their early years there. Apart from infrequent visits, I observed their development on Skype, and was damned glad of it, but it's not quite the same as being there, physically, for the first smile, step, word. I feel privileged to be such an integral part of little E's life and I'm here to tell you that London's just a stone's throw compared to eight thousand miles of longhaul flight.
Of course, we grandparents are often undervalued. I know of some far more devoted than I, who have uprooted themselves from happy, settled lives and moved lock, stock and barrel to be nearer to family who needed them. Every school gate will see a fair proportion of grandparents, planning their days around school drop offs and pickups. Every playgroup sees us sitting patiently at the painting table we thought we'd seen the last of years ago. We nod and smile at each other as we push the swing in the park. We're fabulous. But we're not entirely altruistic. Most of us do it because we actually like it, it's fun, it's good for us, it might even widen horizons that were getting a bit narrow.
I'm not going to deny there are also those days when I've turned down the chance of a boozy lunch with mates to end up in a blustery playground with a grumpy toddler who just wants to smear mud down my coat, when I feel a tinge of bitterness. Then I plan to produce stickers for the back windows of cars, like the ones that say, 'A dog's for life. Not just for Christmas.' Except mine would say, 'A Mum's got a life. She's not just for Childcare.' I'm only human. I have my moments.
But every week, as we set off on yet another of those long drives, we're smiling at the thought of what we're heading towards. We feel very lucky to have our children and grandchildren, and time spent with any of them is a good thing in our book. So here's to all the grandparents who help to keep the wheels turning at home whilst their hard working children are out earning their mortgage payments. We're all valuable and we're doing an essential, worthwhile job. Woe betide anyone who underestimates us and our contribution to society. And just think of the amazing opportunity we have to influence the next generation......and of being a bit subversive, if we choose. So come on little E, repeat after Grandma, "Theresa May is a silly twat." Good girl!!
Thanks so much for reading.
