Mike Priestley: Who's Counting?

Well, it's one of the things granddads are supposed to do, isn't it - tell stories?

My own grandfather used to regale us, as children, with tales of his Bradford boyhood adventures that were rooted in fact but inventively embellished.

It's how I best remember him: sitting in an armchair, spinning his yarns, complete with actions, voices and audience participation (he managed to weave catchphrases into his stories, so we could join in on cue).

I made up stories for my own children which used to go down rather well - particularly with my son, whose artistic imagination allowed him to enter into the spirit of them rather more wholeheartedly than my more down-to-earth daughter.

And now it's Sam's turn. I'm trying to put together a few tales with which to woo him away from videos of the Teletubbies, Thomas the Tank Engine and the wonderful Pingu when he gets to an age at which he's prepared to sit still for ten minutes and listen.

That could be a quite difficult thing to achieve. Sam is a do-er, not a sit-and-listener. He'll look at a book with you for a while, but then he's down and away. His dad designs electrical systems for major building projects, and Sam is a chip off the old block. His two-year-old fingers itch to press buttons and flick switches.

Whenever he's been to stay, we have to check the electrical appliances. In recent weeks he's altered the clock on the video, turned on the cooker timer so its alarm started to bleep three hours later, and messed around with the washer controls so that the next, huge wash done in it was with hardly any water because it was set for "Half Load".

Even so, the stories are being got ready in the hope that one day he'll be happy to sit on my knee or crosslegged on the floor in front of me, as I used to do with my Gramps, and listen while I spin my yarns.

But will he like them? I was lucky that I had a chance to try one of them out last Friday with an audience of seven-year-olds at St Oswald's C of E Primary School in Little Horton.

It was National Book Day, and the school had contacted me to see if I would be prepared to go along and read a story to one of their classes.

Which was how I found myself sitting in front of the bright youngsters of Year 3 reading them my story of the Seagull Who Wouldn't Fly.

They didn't talk among themselves, or shuffle, or cough, or interrupt. They sat there, polite and attentive, and when the story was over, they let me know they approved of it - which was very encouraging.

So the story of the Seagull Who Wouldn't Fly wins a place in the repertoire for when such a time arrives that Sam stops pressing buttons and flicking switches and finds the patience to sit down and listen to one of his old granddad's stories.

Just when it seemed that the 75p pension increase couldn't get any worse, it has. I've had a few calls from readers telling me that when they received notification of their rise, it was even less than the pittance they'd been expecting.

These were women who'd been out of employment for a few years while they raised their families, or who hadn't been paying the full stamp. Because they hadn't paid the maximum contribution for the requisite time, they've only been awarded only a proportion of the 75p.

Adds insult to injury, doesn't it?

I Don't Believe It!

Footballers have some disgusting habits. That's the view of Otley reader Mr E Hodgson, 85, who has this to say:

"I'm not a football fan. I have only ever been to one match. We were let in free at half time. We were children then and it was at Park Avenue. They had a black player called Parrish (I think) and a goalkeeper by the name of Green who got hit in the chest with the ball and knocked unconscious.

"I would not go to another football match even if it also was free. I did have to watch some on television one night because it was overlapping a programme I wanted to watch.

"One thing that disgusted me was that some of the players kept spitting. I thought it was revolting because the next moment they were sliding and rolling on the same pitch. If they must spit, why not give them plastic bags or have spittoons around the ground?

"Perhaps at 85 years I may have lived too long. Today's players are overpaid, oversexed and also go over the top kissing and cuddling each other."

And then Mr Hodgson adds: "If you publish this I will probably lose all my friends."

Somehow, I doubt that. In fact, I should think you might well win a few new ones. Spitting is a horrid habit, yet there hardly seems to be a footballer these days who doesn't do it. And it's spreading to other sports too.

The other day, when we were watching some Manchester United players spitting on the ground on television, I remarked to Mrs Mildew that I hoped she was never tempted to copy that habit down at her bowls club. She went ever so quiet and thoughtful.

And now, a reminder from John Killick, of Shipley, of the traps that lie in wait in small print. As a birthday treat, Mr Killick was taken by his daughter to the IMAX cinema to see "Mysteries of Egypt".

"It was fantastic," he says. "But I have a small complaint. I picked a card up which says 'Save up to £2 with 50p off each ticket'. However, on closer examination I found this applies only for certain shows and I had booked for the 1.30pm which was exempt from the scheme."

Tough luck, Mr Killick. It's always sickening to have hopes raised then dashed. For the benefit of others who might be hoping to take advantage of this special offer, it doesn't cover the 12.30, 1.30 or 3.30pm shows.

Mr Killick was also a bit put out by the arrangement in the cafeteria at the National Museum of Photography, Film and Television. Apparently after being served with hot soup, they had to queue around all the other food and drinks on offer to pay. By the time he got to a table, the soup was only lukewarm.

Bit annoying, that. But not half as annoying as those cafeterias where, when it's busy, you queue for your food, pay for it, and then can't find a table.

You have to try and find some people who look as if they've nearly finished, and hover about near them. That's annoying for them and irritating for you, isn't it?

If you have a gripe about anything, drop a line to me, Hector Mildew, c/o Newsroom, T&A, Hall Ings, Bradford BD1 1JR, email me or leave any messages for me with Mike Priestley on (44) 0 1274 729511. If you've already sent in a grumble and it hasn't appeared yet, don't worry - it will do.

Yours Expectantly,

Hector Mildew

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.