Granddad Kev, do not ask little Amelie to fetch tennis balls.
THIS coming weekend I'm on granddad duty, so I've been getting in some practice. On my dog.
I should perhaps explain that while Banker Boy's little cherub is rapidly closing in on her second birthday, a mixture of circumstances and geographical limitations have meant opportunities to stake my claim as the Coolest Granddad in the World have been somewhat few and far between.
But I am trying to ensure I am prepared for the task ahead. And that's where George the Dog comes in.
He is of similar size to little Amelie (that's Amelie with an "e" not Amelia with an "a", dear reader. French, don't you know) and equal in terms of boisterousness and curiosity.
Dare I say it but, at the risk of sounding weird, he's perfect for the task I have offered him. I say offered, but in truth he really didn't have much choice.
And my use of the word "weird" previously would most likely also explain what he thinks about my behaviour over the last week or so.
Let me explain.
This week as I've fed him I've taken to counting out his biscuits like that Sesame Street song from my childhood. You know the one. "One, two, three ... four, five, six ... seven, eight, nine ... 10, 11, 12 ladybugs came ... to the ladybugs' picnic."
A quick aside here. Any of you youngies reading this and seeing your elders smirking and singing along, just relax. They haven't lost their marbles. It's an oldies' thing. Just look up Sesame Street on your phone thing.
Anyway.
So George gets fed and sung to. A lot, actually.
The other day down at the park I swear he was talking to his mates about me, just after they had sniffed each other's backsides. Obviously.
"You won't believe what the silly sod is doing now. He's got me playing bloody hide-and-seek behind the chair! Does he not know I can see his big bum sticking out the other end?"
But I don't really care.
I know Amelie's giggles will be well worth any embarrassment when the time comes. And I'm pretty sure she won't be telling her mates down at the park what a dickhead I am. Or sniffing their backsides, for that matter.
Besides, I've got one super-cool granddad trick up my sleeve. I'm sure I'm not alone in this one. You may have even tried it yourself.
I'm referring, of course to the Granddad Horse.
Again, I've been practising with George. It took a little coaxing but eventually we've got to the stage where I get down get on all fours and he dutifully jumps aboard.
It's entirely possible he's just doing it to stop me pestering him. In fact, Mrs P says he basically sits up there quietly with an "Oh, for heaven's sake" expression.
I can't see him, obviously, because I am concentrating on keeping a smooth, steady gait around the lounge without dislodging him and saying silly granddad stuff like "Giddy up horsey".
So if I haven't caught sight of George's bored chops lately, there is one expression I have seen lately which will stick with me.
It was that of our friendly little Indian courier driver who was standing at the front door the other day talking to Mrs P while I was trotting round the lounge on all fours with a bored dog perched on my back.
"Don't mind me," I called out. 'I'm just playing with my granddaughter."
Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief that laughter helps avoid frown lines. Your own tales and feedback are welcome on kevin.page@nzme.co.nz