Family of show-offs

Once I left the newspaper I swore I'd had it with covering amateur dramatics, especially rigorously filleted plays which enjoyed Methodist seal of approval. But Zach's appearance in Rumpelstiltskin, a pantomime, demanded my presence.

Zach had two parts. As a bearded gnome, he slipped down his beard to make himself more audible and I could hear his confident young voice ringing out in the choruses. As the King's valet (left on pic) he was on-stage for ages but with little to say; his eyes roved as if he was imagining himself in a more demanding role - Iago, perhaps. Before the panto he'd played a Saturday afternoon soccer game, the following morning he was off to play rugby.

I once wrote a five-act docu-parody which I also directed and narrated. There were never more than three on the stage whereas here there were dozens - appalling logistics, but well managed. Confirmation too of what V said throughout last year: as with singing so with stage speeches, Brits must conquer a national tendency whereby what they utter fades away into nothingness.

Occasional Speeder, Zach's Mum, was Adult 3, a role forced upon her as a result of being Zach's chauffeur. As I earlier found out there's nothing like acting for creating a buzz. We all got home at about 10 pm and went to bed at 2 am. Much Green Room chat, much malicious gossip about those who became excessively "precious" during rehearsals, much giggling at risky improvisations.

I recalled my own acting debut at primary school, aged about 7, reciting The Grizzly-Izzly Bear, for a group of mothers, shabbily dressed, exhausted, able to forget the War for a few minutes. I didn’t forewarn my mother, she didn’t attend and there was a huge hole in my jumper elbow.

Make a right turn soon, kid

Zach, our grandson, is developing at great speed but, hey, this is not one of those maundering grand-parently boasts. His memory is phenomenal but it's what he remembers I find disturbing. Line-ups of the whole of the Premier (soccer, as is all that follows) Division, players' previous employment, past managers of Coventry City, score-lines of international games four months ago, nationality minutiae, transfer fees, the name of Barcelona's ground. The adults around use him as Memory Man, he's quicker than an I-phone.

In October I watched a rugby match on Occasional Speeder's telly. Referring to the game at Christmas I recalled one of the teams but couldn't name the other. "Harlequins," said  Zach, overhearing. He was right of course.

I am reminded of a Damon Runyon story. One of his low-lifes finds himself out-of-work and his only asset is a wide familiarity with racing horseflesh. "But," says Runyon, "in Times Square that knowledge was kinda like a drug on the market."

I'd prefer Zach to have a broader-based start in life when he looks for employment although I may be, as the Austrians say, "listening to the fleas cough." His last report card was a panegyric, a quite sickening panegyric.

And then suddenly my mind slides back 65 years. Cast lists of  US B-feature movies in the 40s and 50s: Charles McGraw, Adele Jergens, Marie Windsor, Steve Brodie. Their faces, etched with noirish camera-work, march past. Slightly faded but still quite sharp is the irritation I engendered in others when I parrotted this info. It's early days for Zach. He is, as I've often said, only six.

No, he hasn't become twins

When I first picked Zach up from school at his mum's request I heard the head mistress ask: "Zach, is that Big Grandad?" I mentioned this in a post and Lucy commented: "Does that mean there's a Little Grandad? And does he mind?"

Perhaps he did though he's a sporting gentleman (golf) and as far as I remember as tall as me, if much narrower. For now he has a different Zach-imposed name: Grandad Who Looks After Nanna. I have only met GWLAN once and have never discovered how he feels about names that sound to be translated from Zulu.

I'll get back to GWLAN (not forgetting N) in a moment. As photos in Tone Deaf have shown six-year-old Zach has an elfin charm which he may quickly grow out of. Any fule can point a Canon Power Shot (this fule does) and we wanted an interpretation. Caroline The Artist has done good work for us and I commissioned such an interpretation from her. Back came not one but two brilliantly elfin pix, one in crayon and one in something else - I've learned not to guess when it comes to the visual arts.

I know, I said, we'll choose one and give the other to GWLAN (not forgetting N) because they dote on Zach and look after him an awful lot. That was several months ago and the two pictures still hang on our walls. I could submit this problem to the BBC radio programme The Moral Maze. Or invite the services of your good selves.