OUR front room is like a crèche.

If anyone was to glance through the front window they would see two people of a senior age sitting in a room with cushions all over the floor covering sharp edges, a musical chair, teddy bears, a pull-along Snoopy the dog, a baby walker full of coloured bricks and a toy box.

By heck, they might think, I’ve heard about second childhoods but this is ridiculous.

This is, actually, called looking after your grand-daughter three days a week.

Other misconceptions are to be encountered.

For instance, the cabinet upon which stands the television set is covered with a white lace coverlet that reaches to the ground. This is to stop small fingers from delving into the slots and crevices of DVD and cable boxes but looks remarkably like an altar cloth.

“Ignore the drapes,” Maria told someone who entered unexpectedly the other day. “It’s not an altar. I know you hear these things, but we do not worship the Great God of TV.”

Although I have to confess I do offer the occasional prayer when I’m watching Manchester United.

We have Jeannie on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday from 7.30am to 5.30pm. ‘Tis the modern way for grandparents to be useful while mum and dad go to work. The toys, which are scattered throughout the ground floor, remain in situ and we walk around them. It’s easier than clearing up each evening. And actually, it adds a certain ambience to the house.

Let me add that my wife Maria carried the brunt of the child minding for, I have to confess, that despite having two daughters and four grandchildren, I have never changed a nappy. Ever.

My technique has always been to hold the child at arms length and shout for help because I cannot extrapolate how a creature so adorable can, at times, smell so bad.

Jeannie woke from her nap the other day and I went to get her from her cot and was unable to even pick her up. We exchanged looks.

“Maria,” I shouted. “You’ll have to come. It smells like the lion house at the Tower Circus in here.”

And such an angelic smile, too.