I pulled a four-year-old bus ticket from my coat and was back on my granddaughter’s first ride. No top deck adventure, downstairs only, the steps were bad enough, and worse with a two-year-old. Rain freckles on the window, her nose to the glass, a small hand guarding the bell. The driver clocked the nerves, gave a kind nod, and we rumbled through town at pram speed. The stub goes back in the pocket, and the timetable stays in memory.
Family
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Finding an Old Ticket Stub
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City Nil, Grandpa One
City was a no-go: none of the passwords worked, and thirty minutes persuading the girls to pack a room full of toys meant we nearly missed the film. I missed part of it while making their tea. No football, half a film, two fed girls. On balance, a result.
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Sunday Lunch in Waterlooville
I cooked Sunday lunch yesterday so we could eat it today while I look after my granddaughters, while their mum and dad are off to McFly and Busted in London. Roast reheated, plates cleared, bedtime stories queued. I’m staying over in Waterlooville, and it feels more like a sleepover than babysitting.