Today’s Silver Spryers activities: Armchair Aerobics and Bingo.
I dread getting old. I mean really old, not just sixty and jetting off on exotic holidays around the world like my father – the life of bloody Riley – hiking into the forests to see rare and exotic birds with other crazy loons. He might as well be sponsored by Craghoppers given the amount of their clothing range he owns.
My life, in comparison, is misery. Bah-humbug to the endless commute, dull business meetings, soggy nappies and stroppy might-as-well-be teenagers. Thanks to a Christmas Eve bottle of fizz and an indiscretion, who we’ve nicknamed Bubbles, we’ve become parents again seven years after the last. Goodbye, early retirement.
‘Daddy.’
My thoughts are torn from a hammock in the Maldives to the nursing home’s activities board.
Friday activities: Pasta and War-time sing-along.
What on earth will they have for my generation? Please, dear God, not Spice Girls and NSYNC sing-alongs.
Sticky little fingers interlace with mine. Harry grins at me, a mouth of tiny pointy teeth slick with saliva. He’s a good kid when he’s not carving grooves in the kitchen table or plucking white hairs from our ageing black cat. I run a hand through my receding hairline. It won’t be long until he starts plucking those too – assuming there’s any left.
He leads me like a pony over to the front desk, where Grandpa is helping himself to the sweet bowl on the counter. My wife, Tarn, is stood beside him filling in the day-release form.
‘How long have we got him?’ I ask.
Tarn glances up mid-signature. ‘Until 3 p.m.’
I check my watch. Four hours to lose him. Doable. ‘Fabulous – beach it is.’
Our eldest, George, is waiting in the car with Bubbles. He moves into the back row while Tarn and I strap Grandpa between Bubble’s and Harry’s car seats. On our last trip, Grandpa climbed out at the traffic lights and wandered into Ann Summers. It’s funny now, but at the time I wanted to melt into the floor. That poor shop assistant… my cheeks burn at the memory.
Bubbles squeals with delight. I turn to find a well-sucked pink elephant comforter on Grandpa’s head. Mad as a box of frogs, both of them.
To my relief, the beach carpark isn’t full. While the boys help Grandpa out of the car, wrapping him in his ancient tweed coat, I listen to the susurration of the ocean, salt-kissed air tickling my cheeks. There’s a fresh breeze which should clear out some cobwebs. Plenty of those where Grandpa is concerned, although I suspect it will blow in one ear and out the other.
‘I see the sea,’ Grandpa croaks, hobbling down the path with the boys. He’s quick for eighty-five, I’ll give him that.
Seagulls careen overhead, wings outstretched as they drift on unseen thermals. My thoughts wander to that limpy one in the town centre who tried to steal my ice cream last week. Ooh salted caramel and chocolate.
A disgruntled cough from the rear of the car snaps me from my reverie. ‘Whenever you’re ready, darling.’ Tarn juggles mats in one hand and a hamper in the other, with Bubbles strapped to her chest, drooling like an otherworldly alien.
Springing into action, I grab the deck chairs and cool bag and trip my way along the path through the dunes onto the golden sand.
The kids play frisbee while Grandpa watches from his deckchair. I slump into mine with a satisfied exhalation, roll up my trousers and crack open a can of Coke. Ahh… this is the life!
‘Come on, Grandpa, let’s look for fossils.’ Harry chivvies George to grab Grandpa’s hand, and together they heave him out of his deckchair to a chorus of grunts. Buckets in hand, Harry and Grandpa head towards the cliffs while George ambles behind, counting grains of sand. At least, I think that’s what he’s doing.
Peace at last.
The Missus coughs loudly, then motions towards the boys, ‘Could you keep an eye on them, love?’
I sigh and inchworm to the edge of the deckchair before slumping onto all fours with no poise or grace. Brushing off the sand, I jog after them.
As I catch up, Harry rushes over brandishing a piece of ammonite. ‘Look, Daddy!’
‘Lovely,’ I wheeze, hands on my quads to catch my breath. ‘Shall we find some more?’ He nods enthusiastically, launching into a detailed explanation of fossils from school. His knowledge far exceeds mine, which is no surprise, and his excitement is infectious. That’s until he picks up a decomposing jellyfish on the end of a stick.
‘What’s this, Daddy?’
Before I can answer, a blood-curdling scream echoes from around the cove. A quick scan confirms Grandpa is missing. ‘Harry, put that thing down! George, look after your brother,’ I bark, sprinting toward the sound.
In a secluded cove, I find Grandpa locked in a tug-of-war with a man in only his birthday suit, over what looks like a pair of black lacy knickers.
‘Give them back!’ the man shouts at Grandpa, one hand strategically placed to keep his modesty. Grandpa doesn’t let go.
‘He’s got my knickers!’ The voice belongs to a young woman peeking out from behind a large sandstone rock only a few metres away. It doesn’t take much to guess what Grandpa has walked in on. As always, he’s a magnet for trouble.
‘For God’s sake, Grandpa, give the poor girl her knickers.’ I bite my lips together, heat flooding my cheeks.
Grandpa grunts and shakes his head, a mad grin on his face.
Realising his tactic isn’t working, the man scowls at me. This is going to need physical intervention. But when I step forward, Grandpa’s face wrinkles.
‘Mine,’ he growls.
‘They aren’t really yours though, are they, Grandpa?’ I say, lunging for the knickers. What I’m not expecting is Grandpa’s grip to be so strong. The material rips, leaving me holding a slither of black lace, while Grandpa stuffs the rest into his pocket and shuffles off.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I mumble, handing the lace to the man before chasing after Grandpa.
Back at our spot, the kids are throwing around a frisbee. Tarn looks up from feeding Bubbles. ‘Where’ve you two been?’
Babysitting your bloody father! I bite back the words, settling for something more diplomatic. ‘Just some man-to-man bonding.’
With that, I sink into the deckchair beside Grandpa, the sun warming my shoulders. Before I’ve taken a swig of Coke, he lets out a muttered grumble, followed by the soft wheeze of sleep. I glare at him, incredulous. How does he do it?
‘Shall we set up lunch?’ Tarn asks.
Translating we to mean me, I arrange a colourful platter of sandwiches, cakes and crisps on the picnic rug. The kids catch wind – or should I say a whiff –and it’s feeding time at the zoo. All the while Grandpa reclines diagonally in his deckchair, head tilted skyward, blasting a cacophony of what sounds like brass instruments out of his nose. That’s blissful ignorance for you.
While I munch on a dry peanut butter sandwich, an idea strikes. ‘Any more of those crispy cakes, love?’
She eyes my expanding belly before rummaging through the hamper. While her back is turned, I lean over to retrieve the knickers from his pocket. My fingers touch something sticky – eww. Grandpa stirs with a snort. I freeze, breath held. He licks his lips, then sucks in another rattling breath. My hand slips out, knickers between my thumb and finger with a boiled sweet dangling from the lace.
The crackle of confectionery plastic sends me into a panic. Without a solid plan, I bolt toward the shoreline, realising too late that it’s an ebbing tide. My throw is pathetic; the knickers flitter into the frothy shallows only a few feet from me. I watch them wash back and forth like discarded seaweed.
Laughter draws my attention. Three women stride towards me, their dog splashing through the shallows. Desperation drives me onto my knees to scrape out a hole in the wet sand. I bury the knickers and rush back to Tarn, who’s waving crispy cakes at me with a puzzled expression.
Excitable barks stop me in my tracks. I turn to find the women staring at something in the dog’s mouth. Yep, you’ve guessed it.
Option one, and my preferred choice, is to keep walking. Deniable plausibility. But what if they return the knickers to Tarn? I’m an awful liar and she’s never going to believe me. Option two comes with a full serving of humiliation with a side salad of indignance. My feet choose option two, dragging my begrudging body with them.
‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ I stammer. ‘You don’t happen to have seen? Oh, there they are.’ I point to the knickers dangling from the dog’s jaws.
Mouths drop open, except the dog’s, of course. He growls at me instead.
‘Marty, drop,’ the owner commands. The dog obeys. I pick it up, careful not to touch the pearly strings of dog drool dangling from it. Returning to full height, I catch uneasy glances from the women. Just like that, I’ve become ‘that weirdo on the beach’. I want to throttle Grandpa.
The women disperse like I’m contagious. Before my sleep-deprived brain cells spark into activity, a swish of material alerts me to imminent company. I shove the knickers into my trouser pocket, then grimace from my cold, wet mistake.
Tarn appears first. ‘What on earth are you…’ She stops mid-sentence, her gaze drifting south.
The kids appear behind her. Harry points at my crotch, ‘Daddy’s weed himself!’ Fits of raucous laughter fill the air. They’re gonna lock me up with Grandpa.
‘What’s that in your pocket, Dad?’ George asks.
I pull on the hem of my t-shirt, too late. Tarn takes a twenty-pound note from her wallet and hands it to George. ‘Take your brother and Grandpa to get ice-creams.’
George doesn’t need to be told twice. Harry follows, leaving me writhing as I brace for the ‘Wrath of Tarn’. She pulls the knickers from my pocket, holding them up in front of my face. ‘I can’t wait to hear your excuse for this.’
‘It was Grandpa,’ I answer. Lame, but true.
‘Seriously Rupert?’ she snorts, the eyebrows furrowing. ‘You’re going to blame Grandpa?’
I shrug. With a disapproving sigh, she storms back to our deckchairs, leaving me to trail behind, wishing once again to be in the Maldives.
‘Did you have a lovely time?’ the retirement home manager asks. Grandpa nods with unrivalled enthusiasm. She turns to Tarn, ‘I hope he behaved himself.’
‘Good as gold,’ Tarn replies, leaning down to kiss her father on the cheek.
Grandpa throws a sly wink in my direction. This man knows exactly what he’s doing. I scratch my nose with my middle finger. Your Karma’s coming, old man.
The car ride home is steeped in silence. Tarn’s tight-lipped glare and the occasional side-eye speak volumes. But just as I’m about to serve up sausages and mash, she bursts into the kitchen, arms flailing.
‘Come quick!’ she exclaims, darting back into the lounge.
I yank off the oven gloves and follow. The TV is paused on BBC One – Spotlight. She presses play and the commentator beams as he introduces ‘a little light-hearted news’.
The screen cuts to an old man – the spitting image of Grandpa – wandering along a beach. Wait… no way! We watch on as the events of earlier unfold, below the caption: Tug of War-drobe: Family Beach Day Takes a Lacy Turn!
My insides twist, knowing my cameo is imminent. How am I going to live this down at work?
But as the footage shifts to Grandpa and I wrestling over the knickers, Tarn bursts out laughing. First a titter, then into a full-blown, thunderous cackle. And I’m laughing too. Because Karma just entered the building. Busted, Grandpa!
As I wipe away happy tears, I’m struck by a new thought – that I’m actually in awe of the man. Still having fun and living life on his terms, not caring a jot what other people think. Maybe getting old isn’t so bad after all.
Tarn raises up on tiptoes and plants a kiss on my lips. ‘He’s a cheeky sod. Sorry, love.’
I throw my arms around her. ‘Don’t be. He’s living his best life.’
‘Something for us to aim for in our old age,’ she replies with a smile.
Her words light a spark in me, because I don’t need to wait for old age. I already have everything right here and now with Tarn and the kids. ‘I got on that rollercoaster the day I met you,’ I grin, planting another kiss on her lips.
Sure, it’s messy, noisy, and downright infuriating at times. I’d kill for a lie-in on Sundays, and who hasn’t dreamt of quitting their job? But family days like today make it all worthwhile.
Copyright © 2025 Lottie McKnight. All rights reserved.