Tomorrow I'm off to London to care for my youngest granddaughter while her mother takes off for a friend's 40th birthday party in Bristol. Those two met when they were both working as nannies for ex-pat families in Holland. It's great that now they both have children of their own and live about 100 miles apart, they still make time for each other.
Even at six years old, my granddaughter is a very slow and particular eater. A couple of years ago, after she'd been to stay with me, I wrote this poem.
If you eat up all those greens
there’s another Yorkshire pud.
I don’t like those beans.
Eat them up; you really should.
Can I have some chocolate cake?
Only if you eat those peas,
and the mashed potato too.
Money doesn’t grow on trees.
Why don’t I have some chicken?
Mum said you like fish fingers better.
I’d like to have a bone to chew.
I’ll take a pic and send a letter.
These chips are not good, you know.
Mummy always buys McCains.
Seems I cannot get it right;
even baked beans must be Heinz.