Meet the Fockers

I’m glad to report that the ‘Meet the Fockers’ evening went well – not at all like the film. As I suspected, they are as crazy as us. I was told beforehand by JW that at family functions they're split up because they laugh too much. This I can believe. 

It helped that the soon-to-be grandads both come from the same place ‘oop north’ and have a similar profession. Many bizarre-incidents-at-work stories followed. They never got onto music, but I’m assured the other grandad is as keen as my husband on all things ‘hifi’. They’re what you might call Northern Stereo – Types. (Don’t blame me for that – it was on a birthday card I sent my husband a couple of years ago.)

It always breaks the ice to hear funny stories about the offsprings’ childhoods, and us grandmas had plenty. Uncles Peter and Jack, along with JW's sister, Aunty J, also put their two penn'orth in. Not that Giovanna and JW appreciated it. Spoilsports. What’s not to love about sons weeing in the corner of their room because they were half asleep and thought they were in the bathroom? Or that your daughter has a phobia against little round things like beads which started as a hatred of peas when she was a tot? (She blames me for that one, as I apparently told her not to put them up her nose in case she choked. That’s sensible, isn’t it?)


At least now my husband and I will recognise our opposite numbers when we see them at the hospital. Nine days to go. Give or take.