They arrived like an ambush. No warning, no warm-up act—just the sound of car doors slamming and then a small voice shouting, “GRANDAD, WHERE’S THE TOAD?” before I’d even put the kettle on.
Four of them. Four small, unstoppable humans, all under ten, with muddy shoes, suspiciously sticky hands, and the boundless energy of creatures who’ve never known sciatica. Their parents—our eldest and his partner—barely got out of the car. Quick hugs, two nappy bags thrown through the door, and then they were gone. Retreating like soldiers who’d just air-dropped their most chaotic weapons into enemy territory.
And that’s how we ended up with a weekend in the caravan, parked at the top of the field behind the cottage, with children everywhere. One climbing the curtain rail. One pressing buttons on the microwave like it was a piano. One sobbing quietly over a broken yoghurt lid. And the littlest one just… sticky. Constantly. No one knows why.
Patricia went into full grandmother mode. Wipes in every pocket. Snack rations. A bag labelled “emergency pants” that I found deeply unsettling. She kept saying things like, “Aren’t they just full of beans?” while twitching slightly.
I tried to stay calm. Tried to play it cool. Told them we’d go for a nice walk. That lasted eight minutes. One stood in a cow pat. One fell over dramatically and demanded a plaster for a completely uninjured knee. One picked up a stick and tried to declare himself King of Yorkshire. And the littlest one—still sticky—ate a worm. Probably. No one saw it go in. But it definitely wasn’t there later.
Back in the caravan, the rain started. Because of course it did. The windows fogged up. The dog escaped (we don’t even have a dog, but one just appeared and then ran off). Someone spilt Ribena. Someone else cried about Ribena. I hid in the bathroom with a crossword and half a Kit Kat until Patricia knocked and whispered, “I can’t do this alone.”
We tried to distract them with cartoons, but they’d all decided they only like things that involve shouting. Loud, repetitive shouting. One of them found the air horn we keep for scaring pigeons. I nearly passed out from the sheer volume of it.
By Sunday morning, the place looked like a post-apocalyptic sweet shop. Patricia had given up speaking in full sentences. I was wearing odd socks and had two plastic tiaras on my head. Someone had drawn on the kettle with a felt tip. I didn’t ask.
And then—just as suddenly—they were gone. Whisked away by grateful parents who claimed they’d had a “lovely weekend in York” and didn’t even look ashamed. They thanked us. One even said, “It must’ve been so relaxing for you both.”
We stood in silence. Caravan trashed. Sofa cushion mysteriously damp. Two biscuits jammed into the DVD player.
Patricia looked at me and said, “I love them.”
I nodded. “Same.”
She paused. “But let’s not do that again until Christmas.”
I agreed. Christmas 2027 sounded about right.
