Flying trumpet

It was part two of Christmas Day, today, as my parents and brother arrived from London and Spain, respectively. Consequently, the cottage was heaving with my children and also the Minx who was on her way south from her own family celebrations.

Apart from the fact that he's such an interesting and entertaining character to have around, one of the things I love about my brother's visits is his excellent recollection of events from when the girls were small. And one of my favourite stories concerns my eldest, Charlie, and my dad.

We were all on holiday in Cornwall and my dad, who really is not a man prone to telling anyone off, had found it necessary to reprimand Charlie for some misdemeanour. (I suspect she'd done something that scared him, like going near the kettle.)

As he spoke to her sternly, Charlie's head was bent to the floor, the very picture of contrition. But when he'd finished, she looked up at him, raised her finger and said:

"No beach for you today, granddad!"