How Herself lost the toe of her sock

Grandchildren... You love 'em... Both the ones who made slippers of the cat... Or the ones who parachuted from the shed... Or the ones with the waggily tails...

"Time to get up," Herself says from the side of the bed. I grumble my eyes open and stare at the ceiling for a moment wondering what planet I'm on.

It's been a tough last half week, getting up a bit of energy to go back to the day job. But I reckon I may be up to it. We'll see this morning if I can ease into it quietly. Peaceful like. Without any fuss or bother. That's the plan I intend sticking to.

So, as Herself is wrestling a foot into a pop sock, I tumble out my side of the bed and innocently switch on the radio.

It wasn't my fault Morning Ireland was turned up to Maximum on the dial.

HUGE waves of bad news ROARED out of the speakers as I stood there blinking, my brain only half awake and totally unaware of why my hair was flapping backwards like the ears of a basset hound puppy dropping down a well.

Over on the other side, Herself's foot rocketed through the pop sock, through the slats of the wardrobe door, through the stud wall and kicked the teddy bear on the spare room bed neatly in the arse.

I tottered to the volume control and blindly turned the damn thing down.

"Grandaughter toddled into here yesterday, by any chance?" I asked.

"Yep."

"Ah."

At least I now knew how my day was likely to go. And it did.