“Why did Nanna have to die?” she asked, totally out of the blue, causing me to grab the nearest, and probably most expensive, pack.

“She had a disease called cancer. Sometimes people get better, but Nanna was too poorly and she died” I replied, never quite knowing how little or how much to say.

“I wish I could have met Nanna, Mummy” she said looking up at me with her sad eyes, squeezing my hand. Looking at her, right there, in the toilet roll aisle I felt a new wave of grief as I saw myself 24 years ago, two years older, looking up and hearing the news that my Mummy had died.

(just for the record I didn’t break down in the supermarket)

Later, that evening, she announced that there weren’t enough pictures of Nanna in our house. I agreed and decided to fill another frame, for the living room, with a picture of my Mum. The 7 year old commandeered it “Can I have that in my room?” she said tracing my Mum’s face with her finger.

I gave her the framed photo and she took it upstairs.  Later at bedtime, when I went to say goodnight, I found her sat looking at the picture. I reached for the photo, to put it on the windowsill but she held on firmly.

“I wish she was here” she said putting the picture under her pillow.

I never thought the ripple would reach that far. That she would be missed by the granddaughter, who never knew her but keeps her close while she sleeps.

It is a clear cold November 5^th sometime in the late 1950’s. I stood with my father and mother watching with, frosty clouds of bated breath, my elder brother Willie von Braun proudly preparing his rocket for take off.

Influenced by the famous schematic centre page drawings in the Eagle comic and recent news of Russian dogs and monkeys being sent into orbit, Willie had decided that he would design and build his very own rocket, a large one. Amongst other components propellant was required; a lot of it and he had persuaded our gang to donate the gunpowder from our fireworks as fuel for his projectile.

This was a big ask. We revelled in our seasonal activities which involved harassing the town’s population by lobbing penny bangers, our weapon of choice, at innocent bystanders, creating shock and awe; mostly shock. We roamed around like small Hamas suicide bombers with our pockets crammed with explosives, probably enough, in the event of an accident, to blow a leg off at the thigh.

Willie constructed the rocket with our proud father looking on in admiration. It was large tubular object with a pointy nose cone, fins and supported on four spindly legs. Based on my avid reading of comics featuring daring stories of the Second World War I saw a bomb; our father impressed by Willie’s scientific endeavours, a Starship.

Over the weeks leading up to Guy Fawkes Night the body of Willie’s rocket was gradually filled up with gunpowder from our dismantled bangers and other fireworks. I suspect that other chemical substances had been added. The previous Christmas, to my brother’s manic glee a chemistry set had been his main present; a reckless gift in my opinion. Soon after strange smells and noises seeped from the utility room and odd events occurred. A hole of about two inches in diameter appeared in our garden bench, a church pew salvaged the demolished surplus village church. The hole with scorched edges had been blown clean through the two inch thick seat panel. My mother and father looked at the hole, scratched their heads and talked in hushed voices of Acts of God and meteor particles from outer space. But I knew; not how but who.

The launch day arrived and on a clear moonlight night Willie’s rocket stood proudly but precariously on a board in the middle of the lawn pointing menacingly at the stars; the centrepiece of the that year’s display.

After a paltry firework show Willie advanced confidently across lawn and lit the slow burning fuse, a product of his chemistry experiments, and retreated. Precisely two minutes later the rocket burst into life; more fizz than roar. It jigged about like a demented Riverdance performer then, failing to defy gravity, slowly toppled over to lie facing our small family group hissing threateningly. My father was now brought to his senses and, drawing on his wartime experience as a Master Gunner in the Royal Artillery he now, at last, saw a bomb not a rocket. and swiftly shepherded us down the garden away from the potential blast zone.  Thankfully there was no explosion; the rocket, in it’s death throes finally roared into life and sped around the lawn in ever increasing circles before finally expiring in the rose bed.

My father commiserated with the young von Braun unaware of the intricate Celtic pattern scorched in the lawn which would only be revealed at sunrise.

A post by Gramps about the joys of being a Grandfather …

A typical day with my grandchildren usually starts with swimming or a visit to that wonderful venue Wacky Warehouse. Swimming has the disadvantage of prematurely tiring me out whereas a visit to the Wacky Warehouse does not need any exertion on my part; adults sit reading newspapers and magazines while the children exhaust themselves (although I have noticed that too many Slush Puppies tend to counteract the fatigue) We then return home and walk our dog Millie in the nearby field. The dog and the children startle the rabbits and the heron standing still as a statue in the pond at the end of the field. The annoyed heron heaves itself out of the pond and we watch as it labours up into the blue sky and slowly vanishes over the trees. I show the children the network of paths made by the rabbits and they follow them in Indian file to their burrows where the granddaughter barks loudly into the mouth of the burrows probably petrifying the poor rabbits and bemusing Millie who rarely barks.

A quick lunch is followed by the ever popular dam building in the stream. Each successive dam is more complex in construction and the resulting pool deeper. For this latest dam we collect dead leaves to create a seal between the rocks. The grandchildren work with enthusiasm with the occasional sibling spat and the dam today is impressive. My grandson then demands to play football as promised (recklessly) at the start of the day. I desperately negotiate a ten minute kip while they watch TV before dragging my protesting body to stand between the two trees that are the goal posts. A day of simple pleasures; priceless.

As I sit recovering from this childminding pentathlon I am content; there is a reassuring knowledge that somewhere in my grandchildren there is a small part of me being transported into the future even if it is only a memory of a day like this.

It’s been a while.  Here is a guest post from Gramps on one of his favourite two subjects, farts and poo …

My grandson looks uncannily like me when I was his age. Occasionally this brings back memories of the distant past and the recent story involving poo triggered a particularly traumatic school recollection.

Still coming to terms with primary school life I am sat anonymously somewhere in the middle of the classroom at a wooden desk, one in a regimented sea of desks. The sun is streaming in the large window, the room is warm and my mind is probably elsewhere; mulling over the latest exploits of Davy Crockett or Quatermass, a scary science fiction TV film which surprisingly my dad had allowed me to watch at the impressionable age of six.

The class, in a state of mild excitement, is about to go to the music lesson which is held in a room at the other end of the school where I will wield a triangle, the extreme limit of my musical talents.

My day begins to unravel with an unexpected and uncontrolled fart; loud enough for the teacher, a tall, thin, middle aged lady, to give me a disapproving look and the girl who is sat next to me to snigger.

The moment passes and I slip back into my default daydreaming mode.  But this doesn’t last. I slowly become aware, along with the teacher and my fellow pupils, that the room is filled with the smell of poo. My recent fart puts me in the frame as the source of the smell. The teacher, suspicious that I have suffered a catastrophic ‘follow through’ tells me to sit at the front of the class.

Even at the age of six I felt victimised; I couldn’t believe that the sheer volume and persistence of the smell could possibly have seeped from my small body.

Much later in my life my mother would often announce, to my extreme embarrassment, in her lilting but loud Scottish voice that when I was a child Doctor Sommerville had remarked that I had very large bowels; the chatter and clatter in restaurants would be suspended at this revelation.

But, back to my childhood. I am sat, probably red faced at the front of the class with the teacher taking frequent smell readings over me with her nose. Things are about to get worse.

The class is marshaled into a column of pairs, boy and girl holding hands and start the long march down the main corridor of the school in a cloud of poo smell. I am holding hands with teacher with my classmates smirking at my discomfiture as teacher stops me at frequent intervals to bend over, pull up the leg of my shorts and sniff.

This final humiliation was intense but short lived.

Suddenly, a girl in the column bursts into uncontrollable tears. The humiliation is transferred as teacher lifts her skirt to reveal a memorably large poo slung in her knickers.

We switched her food last week. Normally she has expensive stuff that you can only get in one shop in the whole world (slight exaggeration).  The Husband swears it gives her firmer stools. I’ve never questioned him further on that statement.

I couldn’t get to the dog food shop last weekend so she ended up eating the cheaper stuff this week.  Big mistake, no … HUGE.  We have spent the past seven days in a haze of dog fart.  Whichever room the children play in the dog inevitably dog wanders in to lie next to them.  Within 2 minutes of her lying down they have their hands clamped round their noses and are not only shoving her out of the room, but into the garden.

Of an evening we have watched the TV with cushions pressed firmly against our faces, watery eyes peeping over the top as another silent but deadly fart wafts through the room.  I say ‘waft’ but to be fair it’s more of a lingering haze of death.

On Friday night I took her to the shop with me (wine run).  It was 7.45 and already *shock horror* getting dark.  I tied her up outside where she sniffed the pavement happily.  When I came out of the shop I undid her lead so she was free, as I put down my shopping to put her back on the lead, she assumed the attack position and barked loudly at the shopkeeper who was standing in his doorway surveying the street, she then edged toward him.

He crapped himself, she realised it was a normal person and not, I assume, someone about to attack me and backed down as the man, in blind panic, went crashing into one of his displays.

In a sea of chocolate fingers (2 for £2.00 don’t you know) and Discovery salsa (BOGOF) I apologised for her behaviour.  He seemed fine, but that might have been the shock.  As we walked off I swear the dog rolled her eyes at me and huffed.

Maybe in her old age she’ll become famous when Mr Shopkeeper eventually sees the funny side and sends his CCTV to You’ve Been Framed. We too will laugh, from behind our cushion nasal protectors, as yet another guff engulfs the Driver living room, and we watch Mr Shopkeeper hurtling into the chocolate fingers and salsa display.

I received the following email from my Dad today …

Dear Laura

If you remember, when you announced on your blog that you were taking up knitting as a hobby I ordered a pair of Speedo style knitted swimming trunks for Christmas. Forget the trunks! I was in two minds anyway; I had a bad experience in the past with knitted swimming attire produced by my mother and I think wearing them at the baths with the grandchildren could create an embarrassing moment – at the very least!

This newspaper article made me think I would like a knitted coffin instead. I have emailed Prince Charles asking if his Royal Highness would be kind enough to forward the knitting pattern to you.

Needless to say there is no urgency for the coffin. I’ll let you know the colour choice (maybe a tartan pattern) and the personalised name in due course.

Be careful not to drop any stitches!

Many thanks

Pops

So, if you want to read my latest post ‘We both assumed roles; Me … ‘Concerned Mother’, her ‘Stubborn Teenager’ you’ll have to bob yourselves on over  there.

A Colobus Monkey

Usually when I’m feeling a bit anxious I have the spider dream.

Due to the pre-move stress I expected to be leaping across the bedroom, in the middle of the night, to escape the spiders.

This did not happen.  Not to me anyway.

The night before we moved there was a disturbance.

I woke in the night and instantly knew something wasn’t right. I stretched out to discover The Husband missing.

Suddenly the bedroom light was flicked on and there in the corner of the room was The Husband in his pants looking befuddled.

He was befuddled, and I was blind … at 3.04am.

The following morning he told me that he dreamt he was being chased round our bedroom by Colobus Monkeys.  He was very precise about the species.

Can you imagine what would happen if the Driver family’s nocturnal behaviour was synchronised … there would be the 4 year old snoring like an old man, the 6 year old screaming like she’s having her leg removed with a rusty butter knife, The Husband being chased by Colobus Monkeys and me scrabbling around on the bed shooing the 100 or so spiders away.

Picture by \\Hayley// on Flickr

Before he even walked into the bar I was in love with him.

We’d met four weeks before on the Internet.  By the time we met we knew virtually everything about each other.  He may have left out that he’ll watch absolutely every sport possible apart from synchronised swimming.  I may have omitted to tell him about my fear of housework and that occasionally I talk/sleepwalk/laugh and leap about in my sleep.

One week into our online banter he sent me a photo of himself.  Today, I can still remember opening that email and looking at him for the first time.  My legs turned to jelly and I knew instantly that he would be my husband.  Who’d have thought that a handsome man sporting an INXS t-shirt with a small child on his knee could have evoked such a reaction.

Three months after our first date we were living together.  In two weeks we’ll be celebrating four years of marriage.  Who knows, we might celebrate by finally picking up our proper wedding photos.  *COUGH*

The last ten years have been the most entertaining, stressful, joyous and personally challenging years of my life.  I can’t think of anyone I would have rather inflicted them on.

Tonight we’ll raise a glass to another ten years.

I used this picture of our wedding day because we looked so very happy, however. I am also a tad shiny.  Great Grandma Driver, approaching her mid eighties, had asked the nice man at the hotel to turn off the air conditioning during our wedding meal.  It was one of the hottest days of the year and she was a bit chilly.  This photo was taken around the moment we realised what she’d done, as everyone started to melt.

So out of chronological order I give you the night and morning following the 6 year old’s birthday party.

We left Gramps in charge on Saturday night.  He is officially THE best babysitter ever; Encouraging us to stay over and come back late morning the following day!

We went to My Sister’s housewarming.  It was a really good do.  Her new house is lovely and it already looks like they’ve lived there for years … in a good way!

I was told to bring one of our camping lamps because the light had broken in the downstairs loo.  I could only locate a wind up one, that only actually seems to work as you are winding it.  Unfortunately, after only one drink and only 15 minutes into the party, I told someone, in a new relationship, not to waste his wrist action in the downstairs toilet.  The Husband was horrified.

It was OK though, because later, when The Husband couldn’t focus he made several verbal faux pas, tried to break some fire wood for the fire bucket with some kung fu moves and then passed out on the spare bed.  Later in the night I had to stop him from wandering to the toilet naked.  He opted to wear My Sister’s faux, floor length, fur coat which was hanging on the back of the spare rooms door.  Think Cruella De Vil. When I imparted this information the following day My Sister couldn’t work out whether she was mortified or amused.

I imagine that coat will be in the dry cleaners quicker than you can say ‘All fur coat, no underpants’.

When we arrived home the following day, it sounded like the kids had thoroughly enjoyed themselves.  The 4 year old woke Gramps very early.  They went to the local nature reserve and then played in the street until we got home.

I don’t think I will ever forget arriving home to find Gramps playing tennis, in the street, with the 4 year old … his face painted, by the 6 year old.

Those of you who read My Sister’s blog will want to know if ‘Ole twinkly Eyes’ showed up.  Well he didn’t, and I was actually quite glad.  The merrier I got the more people became aware of the review I did of ‘my sister’s man friend’.  it could have been a tad embarrassing.