My Boy messages me to suggest I may like to think about being a sandwich.
It's an interesting thought and therefore I give
it serious consideration: as in, what kind of sandwich would I be? Maybe a delicious chicken salad on granary bread? Or plain but nourishing free-range egg and cress? Even something impossibly exotic - like a fish finger sarnie? Which is when a second message
pings into my virtual In-tray, informing me that I should actually think about bringing a sandwich.
I am off to Legoland to surprise my (Not So Very Little)
Welsh Boys - and especially the Birthday Boy, Young Morgan. The (hopeful) thought of their delight when they see me keeps me going throughout a somewhat tortuous journey when my carefully planned route is disrupted by a road closure and consequent diversion.
I do hate a diversion, unless it's in the Daily Blog which is - as regular readers know - famous for its diversionary tactics.
In fact the two older boys fall
into my open arms with heart-warming pleasure to see me. Young Morgan, however, takes a much more matter of fact approach - he simply grabs hold of my hand and invites me to "come and play with me!" as if my presence is only to be expected on this Most Auspicious
Occasion. There are few things sweeter for a grandparent than being taken absolutely and completely for granted by a five year old.
Ah, what to say about Legoland?
The Land of Fun where at every turning you come across another figure - boy, girl, cat, rabbit - made out of Lego bricks by someone far cleverer and more dexterous than I. I am in charge of Morgan when he goes to "driving school" to earn a provisional driving
licence. I am impressed by the stern instructor who takes the young drivers, all aged 3 -5, through their paces before letting them loose on the cars. Should they get stuck, she tells them, they are to raise their arm in the air. Morgan, sitting in the back
row, indulges in a visible yawn: you can just tell he isn't planning on getting stuck.
He tells me he wants to drive one of the red cars. I, concerned about
possible disappointment, point out that even the blue cars and yellow cars sport some red embellishment but Morgan dismisses my well-meant intervention. Cleverly, when the Stern Instructor tells the young drivers to get going ("Walk, don't run!" she instructs
the backs of their heads as they race towards their vehicles) I note that my clever grandson doesn't even attempt to claim one of the two red cars nearest the entrance but heads straight for the one furthest away, way across the race track. Not for the first
time I find myself thinking that the Duracell Bunny will go far..
We take a ride on the Sky Train, high above the park; watch a performance of The Elves and the
Shoemaker, the latter with a very distinct Welsh accent; take in a 4D film ("It looks real!" marvels the Birthday Boy, tucked into my side); and take a trip Round the World in Miniland. It is all, indeed, Awesome.
Possibly the funniest time we have is playing at training to be firefighters in the Fire Academy. Our task - to power a fire engine along a track to a "burning" building where we will quench the flames with real water pumped
through our hoses. This task, we are informed, tests fitness, speed and teamwork. Sam, James and their mum, the Darling Daughter in Law, are in charge of Engine number 3, while Morgan, his Dad and I take the Fire Academy challenge in Engine Number 2. I think
it is fair to say that what Morgan and I lack in strength and speed, we make up for in enthusiasm. Our team mate, who ends up doing all the hard work, may see things rather differently.
I have to leave at the end of the day but the fun goes on for the family I leave behind me. I wish I could stay but I am oh, so very happy that they have another day in the Land of Coloured Bricks.
Memories are made of this.