Grandad in the pub

Alexander is in his high chair singing:

“Grandad in the pub

Grandad in the pub

Wibble wobble

Wibble wobble

Grandad in the pub.”

He actually sings “pump” rather than “pub,” but I know what he means and thought I would translate.

Alexander likes to sing, and I like to sing with him. I also sing with my 88-year-old demented mother, and she usually remembers the words better than I do. There’s something deeply human about singing, and it allows us to connect when complex rational speech is useless.

I’m not sure why he sings about me being in the pub. I don’t often go to pubs, and I’ve rarely been in a pub with him. But when we were playing in the piazza (don’t worry, Venice, Clapham’s piazza will never upstage yours) the other day, he kept wanting to go into the pub. I stopped him.

Then he sings

“Grandad up the tower

Grandad up the tower

Wibble wobble

Wibble wobble

Grandad up the tower.”

He knows what scans, and his high, thin voice is lovely. When we dance, as he loves to do, he keeps better time than me, as Lin likes to point out. But where did the idea of me being up a tower come from? I didn’t know that he even knew the word tower.

But then he resorts to a favourite:

“Grandad eating porridge

Grandad eating porridge

Wibble wobble

Wibble wobble

Grandad eating porridge.”

Porridge features a lot in our lives. I can imagine that as an old man the only thing that he’ll remember about me is my love of porridge. I’m happy to be remembered for that.


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