Grandson's observation of grandparents
I’m sitting at the kitchen table early one morning late last year, staring at my Mac, trying to get my head around this blogging caper, when Mr Seven year-old approaches me clutching a book. “P-oooop?” I know from experience, the longer the ‘ oooop ’, the bigger the question he will ask. “Yes, mate. What have got there?” “A book on ancient Egypt, see.” He proudly hands me a thin, illustrated children’s book from the school library. “Wow, that’s impressive.” “Did you and Nan ever live in ancient Egypt?” Having a quick flick through, I say. “Well, I’m ancient, true and might easily have fitted in. But, Nan’s way too young to have lived there. Why, mate?” “They had lot’s of slaves back then, didn’t they to make beds, cook and look after kids?” “That’s what’s in this book, why’s that, mate?” “Slaves did everything for them, didn’t they? Like making things and cleaning.” “I guess so, mate.” “You and Nan, you’re just the slaves back then only to me and Ayden.” “Ver