"MUM?" Our son's voice had that wheedling note I'd been very familiar with when he was a child, wanting something. He's a man now, recently a father, but the note was the same. "You know you said you wished you lived near enough to childmind for us when the maternity leave ends?"

So I had. Living three hundred miles away from your first grandchild is a sad business, especially with rail fares so high. And they had a serious childcare problem. Finding good childcare is hard enough anywhere in the country, if you haven't got a handy grandmother round the corner. In London it's a real headache, and an expensive one at that.

But if my daughter-in-law didn't go back to work once her six months maternity leave was up, she'd lose out on pay and promotion, and her arduously acquired skills would lose their edge. They'd looked at all kinds of childcare options including hiring a nanny, though not to live in, as they hadn't enough room. Good nannies are very expensive, and the safeguards against bad ones are flimsy in the extreme. My son and his partner had heard all sorts of horror stories from their friends.

A good child minder's often the best option, but there aren't that many registered child minders in their part of London and they hadn't been impressed with those they'd met.

That left a day-care nursery, so they spent weeks trailing round all they could find in the neighbourhood. Some were appalling - dark, crowded, with uncaring staff and miserable babies. Some were OK, but nothing special. The one they liked best - bright, airy, orderly but happy - wasn't (quite) the most expensive, but it had a long waiting list. There was no chance of getting the baby in there by the time his mother went back to work. It might, they were told, be as much as a year before there would be a place. So I made the remark referred to above, and even added: "I could always fill in for you, until he gets a place at nursery." I wasn't entirely serious. I didn't expect anyone to take me up on it. My son always did know how to twist me round his little finger.

I put my life on hold, packed my bags and took the train to London. I moved into a 'studio flat' (one room, with shower and loo) that my son rented for me round the corner from where they live. I came home some weekends, my husband joined me now and then, and we went away on holiday a couple of times, but for the next six months, that was my job: taking sole charge of my grandson from 8.15am to 6pm every weekday.

My son and his partner were suitably appreciative and, of course, I did it to help them out. But to be honest, I also did it for myself. It gave me a stake in my grandson's life. For a whole six months, I was with him almost every day. I saw him crawl, heard his first words. I was there when he learned to stand. I was there when he first sat down, by his own choice, from a standing position - and was so pleased with himself he kept doing it over and over again, just for fun. I took him to the clinic for his development checks, to the doctor when he was poorly. I sang him nursery rhymes and read him stories. I played games with him and gained a close acquaintance with Pingu and Teletubbies. I took him to the park, where on sunny days, I'd spread a rug under the trees and he'd crawl full speed ahead after pigeons and squirrels, and examine fallen leaves and bits of stick and blades of grass. We fed the ducks and enjoyed the fountains. I gave him his first thrilling ride on the swings.

Then the nursery got in touch. There would be a place for him in early January. On Christmas Eve, my duties ended. We all spent Christmas Day together, and then we grandparents caught the train home. For a few weeks, I missed him so much it hurt. Then I got used to being back and normal life took over. We've made that journey to London often since then, to give the young parents a break, to celebrate a birthday, just to visit. Our grandson's obviously very happy at nursery. But he hasn't forgotten me and he comes running when he sees me.

Would I do it again? I don't know. What I do know is that I don't regret a minute of those six months. I'm part of his life as I could never have been otherwise, living so far away. And I've a store of wonderful memories.

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* This is the first fortnightly column by The Northern Echo's newest recruit, prolific novelist Helen Cannam. She has lived in the North-East since 1966, and is married with a daughter and a son. Her grandson Jonah celebrated his second birthday last weekend.