End of the street on England’s North East Riviera where I’ve bought a house is a school, and a real eye opener is the number of grandparents dropping off and picking up kids. These unpaid guardians are the lifeblood of families in Cullercoats, allowing parents of bairns to go to work. They sweep down the road cheerfully in the mornings, clutching the hands of smiling little ‘uns, often pushing a younger brother or sister in the buggy.
The same grandies reappear in the afternoons, standing at the gates before completing the reverse trip. Talk in parks and soft play areas in London with parents of Little L and Canny C’s friends invariably turns to the difficulty and expense of childcare and juggling school hours and jobs. Most lack the luxury of a grandparent on call.
Up here in a picture postcard Cullercoats – the locals call the place Cullerfornia – the sun always seems to shine. It’s an old fishing village with a magnificent beach and bay popular with hardy swimmers and paddle boarders, two stone breakwaters calming the North Sea – and it’s where grandparents lubricate the economy and mesh the community together. I’ve done the odd drop off and pick-up myself with Little L and Canny C but never Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday before repeating the following week and every one thereafter.
Blowing cobwebs from the memory box I couldn’t rely on regular help when my own kids were tiny, living most of the years many miles from their grandparent.
