LOVES OF A TWO YEAR OLD: FOOTBALL AND POSTING

Singing, I have just concluded, makes you happy even if you are someone, like me, who has no talent for singing whatsoever; I merely make a noise. That being the case I have a limited number of options for indulging my absence of talent but undoubtedly the best one is when I am walking down the road with two-year old Theo on my shoulders, returning, as we were this morning, from making the daily purchase of milk and periodicals.

Sometimes we sing the same song, Theo and I; but Theo’s repertoire is limited. He knows the first verse of ‘Old MacDonald’ and can turn in a fine rendition of the Grand Old Duke of York - although that sounds a bit like Italian opera as he has yet to understand what any of the words mean, Grand Dukes and York not figuring prominently in his nursery discourse. At other times I sing and he hums along behind and both of us are - in the expression of my nineteenth century-born great aunt, ‘as happy as sandboys.’

But what is (or was) a ‘sandboy’ and why should sandboys be happy? I’ve never had occasion to think about it before; possibly because I’ve never written the words before, so here’s what Brewer says on the subject:

‘An old established expression from the days when sandboys (or men) drove their donkeys through the streets hawking bags of sand usually obtained from beaches. The sand was used by people for their gardens and by builders and publicans for sanding their floors. the happiness of sandboys was due to their habit of indulging in liquor with their takings.'

As an explanation this seems to me to have more holes than a rusty colander. In the first place, I doubt you could carry much sand on a donkey; Secondly, beach sand would be no use in gardens or for mixing in cement, and what about all those pubs more than a mile or two from sandy beaches? Not everything you read in books should be trusted.

But now that I come to think of it, neither should Theo. For when he’s not singing, Theo has two other great loves: football and posting. We stand at opposite ends of the long downstairs corridor, hoofing a football between us and yesterday we discovered an even better corridor in the walled lane that runs beside the local play area. Even at two Theo can kick a ball with length and direction; I can merely kick it with length, so the ball ricochets back and forth down the lane. When it reaches him he whumps it back like an arrow. I wonder if I could get him a trial for Arsenal?

He’s not quite as good at posting. He has yet to understand that not every oubliette offers the same facilities as a letterbox. Yesterday, things suddenly went quiet for a while, always an ominous sign; then we heard repeated attempts to flush the loo. Perhaps he had finally made the profound connection between messy nappies and a preventive period of contemplation with trousers around ankles. Hopes rose.

I peered hopefully into the watery depths: a soggy mass awaited. Luck alone had prevented the day’s label invoices, all enveloped and awaiting stamping, being despatched to the sewage works. I fished them sadly out; yet I couldn't help wondering whether it would be possible to retrieve a message on the other side of the world that had been flushed down a loo; suitably protected, of course?

Having recovered from this minor calamity we set off into the cold wet afternoon hoping to have more luck at the actual Post Office, which here is embedded in our Spar supermarket. For speed I had plonked him in his buggy. I’ve done this before, yet how quickly one forgets the vast amount of space taken by grandparent and pushchair as ensemble, and how small the aisles. Turning round becomes a manoeuvre to be executed with care and trepidation. Ankles loom everywhere, like land mines.

Now this Spar thoughtfully provides a stack of small trolleys for children. Theo caught sight of them and was off immediately. ‘Oh dear,’ I said to myself using one of his own favourite expressions, for this was not a Good Idea. Now I was the supervisor of two independent wheeled vehicles in a crowded supermarket, one of which was being driven at the speed of a future football winger across the store, while the other had become stuck fast between the jam and the baked beans. I felt I needed public liability insurance with a significant number of noughts.

Eventually by an undignified snatch at the hood of his coat, the rampaging trolley was brought up short. I abandoned the buggy and made a dash for the checkout and then all suddenly became well. No catastrophe. Theo even wheeled his trolley back calmly to the trolley stack. He posted our letters, we retrieved the buggy and rode home. I think we even sang the Grand Old Duke of York with embellishments and trills!