GRANDAD'S nearly 80, he had a heart attack not long ago, and he fought in the war. So he shouldn't have to put up with what he went through on the night of the ballet...

Hannah - still my baby girl - had been chosen to dance with the English Youth Ballet at the Civic Theatre in Darlington. It was the biggest night of her 12-year-old life and the whole family was turning out to see her in the spotlight.

All except Grandad. He's suffering from badly failing sight and, while he was waiting for a new pair of glasses, he had to stay at home.

Even Uncle Paul was coming up from Manchester, which is where it started to go pear-shaped. Uncle Paul's a lovely lad but not the most reliable - chaos follows him wherever he goes.

It had been agreed that he'd pick up Grandma from Middlesbrough and drive her to the theatre. But, true to form, he phoned an hour before the performance to say he was running late - something about having 'Reg' with him.

I was desperately trying to finish off at work so my wife had to dash across to Middlesbrough at the last minute to pick up Grandma, who'd had to make up the spare room in a mad panic, assuming Reg was a mate of Uncle Paul's.

Meanwhile, Auntie Hazel, who'd been getting ready after racing home from work, had to drop everything to sort out our three boys in their mum's absence. It went from controlled calm to complete mayhem in minutes and let's just say Uncle Paul wasn't the most popular person in the world at the time.

My wife, Grandma, Auntie Hazel, and the boys all made it to the theatre in the nick of time - but there was still no sign of Uncle Paul as the curtain went up. Typical.

He finally arrived during the interval, full of apologies, with his most far-fetched excuse thus far: Reg, it turned out, was a one-eyed greyhound who belonged to a friend who'd had to go to Japan in a hurry.

Reg had lost the eye in some kind of fight or accident so I suppose his name might have been short for registered disabled.

"How could I say 'no'?" pleaded Uncle Paul in mitigation.

He'd had to dump Reg on Grandad, who wasn't best pleased. It all warranted a quick phone call to see if the old man was OK. "No I'm not bloody OK," he yelled. "How do you think I feel - stuck here with a one-eyed greyhound I've never even met?"

He'd had a heart attack, he could hardly see, and he should be relaxing - not looking after a half-blind mutt. (He may well have mentioned that he'd fought in the war as well.)

The ballet was fantastic. There was my baby girl, startlingly tall and elegant, in a flowing white dress and wearing makeup. So grown-up I hardly recognised her.

Once she'd left the stage, my thoughts turned back to my parents' house, where the greyhound and the grandad were guaranteed to have long faces. I imagined them staring at each other (as best they could with their dodgy eyes), him grumpily telling the dog to sit down every time it moved a muscle.

The longer the night went on, Grandad would be finding it harder to understand why he'd been left in charge of a one-eyed greyhound, and Reg would be finding it equally difficult to come to terms with being left with a half-blind grandad.

So there were two very different performances that night, which symbolised the all-too-quick dance through time. One of them, starring the young, was a spectacular ballet which brought tears to my eyes. The other, starring the old, was a comical farce which brought tears to my eyes for entirely different reasons.

Another phone call at the end of the night confirmed that Grandad's mood was no better - but life was definitely on the up for Reg. He'd taken the opportunity to escape while the dog-sitter's back was turned, answering my first call. The search lasted nearly an hour, blood pressure rising all the time, before Reg was finally found.

He'd sneaked upstairs and climbed, uninvited, onto Grandad's bed, where he'd made himself as comfortable as possible.

The shout of: "Gerrof my bed" was apparently heard in the next street.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

WHILE on holiday in Devon, Mollie Lordon, of Hilton, Yarm, took her family to a donkey derby organised by the local Rotarians.

Luckily, Mollie picked the winner of the first race.

Back at school, Mollie's daughter had to write an essay about her holiday and the teacher asked her mum if she'd like to see what she'd written: "We went to a donkey derby when we were on holiday and my mother won the first race."

(Mollie's a member of Stockton Fairfield Manor Townswomen's Guild.)

JANET James, of Malton Ladies Luncheon Club, recalled the time grandson Jack, aged five, got into bed with her for a cuddle.

"Where's your Mum?" he asked.

"She's died," replied Janet.

"Did you burn her?" asked Jack.

SUZANNE Everett, also of Malton Ladies Luncheon Club, went into great detail about the facts of life when her little boy Duncan asked: "Mummy, where did I come from?"

After she'd explained about the seeds and the eggs, Duncan wasn't satisfied.

"No, where did I come from?" he asked again.

She went into a bit more detail but Duncan still wasn't happy.

"No! Rachel (his baby sister) came from Newport - where did I come from?" he said.

His red-faced mum was able to tell him he came from Windsor.

* Don't forget it's Father's Day this Sunday and us poor old dads deserve a treat. For a great Lightwater Valley Father's Day offer see Page 8 today and don't miss a free tipple for dads this Saturday. Have a drink on me!