I should make it very clear at this point I absolutely adore my grandchildren.
Time spent with them is to be treasured with accompanying smiles at their utter innocence and giggliness.
But boy, do they scream a lot, both in excitement and in general. I guess it means they are happy.
Having said all that – and I’d suggest a majority of fellow grandparents will feel this way even though we might outwardly express otherwise – it’s quite nice when they go home. Rather peaceful in fact.
But generally this feeling only lasts for a while until you start missing them again.
Anyway.
Recently, our kids brought their kids to visit and we had the usual up and downs, tears and laughter, falls and other accidents etc.
They are of an age now where they are interacting with other kids and seeing as we were parked fairly close to the motor camp playground the noise was pretty constant.
I should qualify that. It was – to my ears at least – initially kids playing happily noise which we all enjoy I’m sure, but after several hours it started to become a little irritating.
It showed no sign of abating when the hyped-up wee things made their way back to home base. Or when they decided they didn’t want to go to bed.
That’s probably when Grandad first felt like the aforementioned painting. As in I wanted to scream.
But, long story short, we got there. It was great to see them and sad to wave them off but we made it.
And as we retreated into our own little cocoon that evening,, I know I was definitely in need of some peace and quiet.
Naturally Mrs P just accused me of being a miserable old sod but I note she was well into her Passionate Night With Rod Stewart dream, chapter 21, long before I managed to nod off.
So we got that first night alone out of the way and we were just starting to decompress and looking forward to a chance to recuperate properly when, next day, a bunch of teenagers showed up at the Christian camp over the fence next door.
Obviously, I know it’s not fair to categorise people based on their beliefs but, let’s be honest, when we think of a Christian camp we tend to think of quiet pursuits, don’t we?
Maybe a bit of peaceful reading. Discussion about the ,. The mandatory sedate Sunday service, that sort of thing.
Nope. Not this camp. From the moment they arrived,, the music was thumping loud and long, the singing boisterous, the all-in games of touch rowdy, and the teenage girls were shrieking at a decibel level to shatter glass at every single opportunity.
To be fair, every night at 10pm it stopped. Religiously – pun intended.
But by the third day, Mrs P wanted to join me in our own was painting with a call for a bit of quiet.
Thankfully, we left that particular place before the noise did us in.
Part of me was very happy, knowing I would finally get a little bit of peace and quiet at our new location, Old Fart that I am.
Equally, part of me was somewhat regretful I’d not tried out the Christian Camp thing when I was much younger.
They seemed to be having an awful lot of fun with good mates. And, I’m assuming, nobody had a hangover the morning after.
Anyway.
We eventually got to where we were going and parked up in a nice, sunny spot at the end of a cul-de-sac in a small, peaceful seaside community.
The sound of the waves in the distance was whothe only thing breaking the stillness.
Until we encountered our next-door neighbours.
Not noisy little kids. Not loud teenagers. Just an elderly couple who I presume had lived in their part of Paradise for many, many years and had a well-established early morning routine.
Unfortunately, they were both, obviously, very hard of hearing and positively yelled at each other over their breakfast table.
So, as Mrs P and I lay there still tucked up in bed, a mere 20 yards away on the other side of the fence, we didn’t know whether to cry or scream.
Eventually, we resorted to putting pillows over our respective heads - to muffle the sound of our laughter.
