Generation Game

Grandad wore a tie to the doctor's and peeled the lunch-time potatoes before breakfast. His bear-hugs could break even the sturdiest of ribs. He had a full head of snowy hair, full red lips in a permanent smile, and overgrown eyebrows twirling skyward like soft-whip ice cream cones.

Grandad, Dad and I were born 30 years apart. As I reached 40, Dad turned 70; Grandad would have had a telegram from Her Majesty, had he not already been ten-toes-up. When I was little, we three sometimes reminded each other of our 30-year gaps ... like we were the privileged members of some kind of silly age-pattern club, or something. I liked being the youngest.

Yesterday my parents brought the children home, having had them round for tea. As Dad smiled and pulled on his hat to go, he looked momentarily just like his father (but without the wayward eyebrows). Oh no, I thought, you're the oldest now. A demon stood on my shoulder. He glanced furtively around, leaned in towards my ear and hissed: "you're next".