Soft spots

I’ve just been in the UK again – one last dental appointment, and another opportunity to see the kids and grandkids. This time I travelled alone, and although I think Marie and I were perhaps both a little apprehensive about how that would go (will he fall asleep on the airport train, will he be able to get his shoes on and off for security control, will he lose his way in the maze that is Schiphol airport), once I got into it I was just fine.

The grandchildren were wonderful. I have been over often enough this year that they really know me now so we can cut out the coy/shy stage. My granddaughter of 2 ½ was sweetness and light and wrapping me round her little finger. She really brings out the best in me, had me crawling around under the table chasing lost crayons and playing silly games. I was amazed that I managed – but it was OK, somehow the medicinal effect of those big dark eyes just melted my stiff joints (or more likely produced a useful flood of endorphines). Just the thought of her makes me feel better.

My grandson of 4 months is still to small to demand much of me besides a soft lap to nap on (which I am exceedingly well equipped to provide). I think he will grow up to be a smart kid, already showing native intelligence in the way he examines everything in great detail (I know, I’ve gone granddad-soft-in-the-head).

Having been down to 75 kg in my morphine addict days, I am now at a record-breaking 93kg. All my trousers are too tight and I suspect the beginning of man breasts, worrying that chest hair can hide only so much underlying porkiness. I also have some knee pain, but whether that is related to Parkinson’s (bad posture and poor walking) or caused by me becoming a fat bastard is anyone’s guess. Anyway, the upshot was that my daughter took me out to buy new trousers from my life-long suppliers at M&S. I decided to go super-comfy and bought three new trousers with some room for growth.

When wife #1 saw me strutting my new style later that day, she asked if wife #2 had approved this purchase. When I answered no, #1 smirked knowingly. Numbers 1 & 2 get on frighteningly well, so #1 was of course entirely right about the reaction I got from #2 (who also wasn’t impressed by my braces and claimed that [braces + trousers 3 sizes too big = Bozo the Clown]). As I write, my wonderful new trousers are being boiled in an attempt to reduce their size and my braces are sulking at the back of the cupboard. So much for my attempt at hobo chic.