Gran disses my ‘fat’ baby

I chose the wrong day to visit Grandma in the home.

"They're bringing a new bed in at half one, you'll have to be out by then," was the heart- warming squawk that greeted me as I walked in the door.

In the context of her generally open diary, I and the new bed turning up on the same afternoon constituted an unmanageable scheduling overload. She looked stressed and angry; I briefly contemplated

her head spinning around and then exploding into a cascading fanfare of ticker tape. Eventually she just turned back to her plate of raspberry jelly, angrily complaining to herself that it was 'too hard'.

She didn't realise I had a trump card up my sleeve. Concealed beneath a blanket in the pushchair was my beautiful, beaming, nine-month-old daughter, ready to melt the cantankerous old bat's heart with her trademark toothy grin and all-round sunny demeanour.

I whipped away the blanket with a flourish and announced: