Dear Philippa,

My grandson, Archie, is what my mother would have called a bit of a limb, a difficult child when he perceives some advantage in it. It gives me immense pleasure watching him give his parents a hard time. Recently at breakfast he was sat at the breakfast table scowling at his untouched toast. My son Edward asked, all reasonable, what the matter was: “There’s a problem with the jam”. This took some sorting out and while this was going on I reminded Edward of the time, at the same age, when dissatisfied with his fried egg he picked it up between thumb and forefinger and gave it a good shake to demonstrate its sub-standard quality. Archie watched me closely and with great interest as I described this episode, making it clear that I thought it was hilarious; I cannot leave it to him to have all the best ideas.

It’s an odd business being a grandparent. Many of my contempories react against the title, saying that it makes them feel and sound old, but I cannot agree. What makes me feel old, insofar as I do, is having lived a while and what makes them sound old is their constant complaining about it and their transparent and vain strategies to defy the passage of time: comb-overs, wearing shorts when not on the beach, and sucking in their bellies whenever an attractive female shows up. I remember very well the pleasure my own children got from their grandparents who, in the case of my father, they were lucky enough to hang onto until their early adulthood, and I remember also being envious of the relationships they enjoyed with him. I have always rather looked forward to being a grandad. I have not been disappointed.

One of the hazards of being a grandparent is finding fault with your children’s child-rearing techniques, a cause of many fractured relationships. My own son and his wife are in my view making a rather better fist of it than I ever did. The discipline they exercise is consistent and rationally applied, they operate in unison, and they never make idle threats – the cornerstones of wise parenting. Working on the premise that only parents can spoil children, I take every opportunity to subvert their authority and encourage Archie into outrageous behaviour, a crucial feature of any grandad’s job description. Another hazard is boring friends witless with extravagant claims of cuteness, intelligence and physical beauty of one’s grandchildren. You know the kind of thing – toilet trained at 3 months, reading the Daily Telegraph by the time they are two, and parsing difficult passages of Xenophon’s Anabasis before they enter primary school. I cannot make such foolish claims on Archie’s behalf: he is not fully toilet trained, unless his peculiar enthisiasm for evacuating his bowels in the bath counts, his only interest in the Daily Telegraph is in shredding it and flinging it about the room, and the closest he comes to appreciating the achievements of the Greeks is in eating their yoghurt.

The other week I went into a room to find Archie alone, quietly playing with his toys:

Archie: I’m not being naughty, grandad.

Me: I’m sure you’re not, Archie.

Archie (with a sly look): I was naughty yesterday, grandad.

Me: Really? What did you do?

Archie (grinning): I did a fart, grandad!

Best wishes

Howard