PAT McDERMOTT:

A pint-sized guest (and his new royal friend) send the McDermott household into an etiquette spin.

royal tips for pint-sized diners

Our grandson, Finnegan (aka Mr Finn) is coming to dinner. He’s relocated, with Mummy and Daddy, from Melbourne to Sydney and we’re very excited to have him living close by.

It’s his first dinner with us and I wanted it to be special. Was there any protocol around one’s first formal dinner with one’s grandparents, I wondered? Who would know?

Archie Mountbatten-Windsor, that’s who! He was born knowing a bouillon spoon from a spork. I dashed off an email in Finn’s name to the newest royal baby in the world.

Archie wrote back promptly. I’d have expected nothing less.

Dear Mr Finn,

Thank you for your letter. I always think it’s good form to wear ‘nappy, bib and medals’ when dining formally with one’s ‘oldies’. At our age, of course, footwear is always optional and, in any case, I understand it’s acceptable to pad about barefoot in Australia almost all the time. Lucky you, old chap! Do remember to close one’s mouth firmly and screw up one’s nose at anything one hasn’t seen before or has seen but doesn’t want to see again. I reject anything that’s taken hours to make or is green.

Bon Appétit! Your mate, Archie. PS: Let me know how you go. I’m always looking for new ideas to upset Cook!

This sounded like the lecture I went to when I was pregnant with baby #1. A harried baby health sister told us there were only really two kinds of baby food. “Good food” is what you want your baby to try but she refuses, such as steamed fish, puréed veges, beef broth, custard, anything that worked for your mother, took you half a day to make or came in a small expensive jar.

“Real food” is what your baby will always eat. Mushy cereal, hot chips, squashed banana, carpet fluff, ice-cream, toast fingers, fish fingers, her own fingers, biscuits and the kibble in the dog’s bowl.

We gave her a round of applause and wished, not for the first time, that the baby health centre had a bar.

Mr Finn arrives promptly at 5.30pm with Mummy (Kath), Daddy (Patrick) and lots of gear.

“Is that a tent?” the MOTH asks when he opens the door. I know he’s wondering how long they’re planning to stay.

“It’s a portacot,” I whisper reassuringly. Mr Finn has soft brown hair, big brown eyes and a magic smile. He chuckles like a dear old man who finds the world and everybody in it very much to his liking.

When his dad puts him down on the floor, Mr Finn goes straight to work rearranging delicate ornaments, framed photographs and low-lying wine glasses.

Then he skilfully changes all the settings on the TV remote before crawling under the dining room table to taste-test dust bunnies. When he sees the refrigerator door is open, he helpfully pulls out a can of beer for Pop. He makes sure to shake the tin up and down, and up and down again, before he takes it over to him.

“Who’s a clever boy?” says Pop, and then he opens it.

Dinner is almost ready, but Mr Finn is too busy to eat. He’s under the kitchen bench with his dad’s old collection of toy cars and Ruff Red’s building blocks.

First he stacks the blocks, one on top of the other, to make a wobbly tower. Then he lines up the little cars under the coffee table, around the sofa and down the hallway. “Look at that,” the MOTH says proudly, as he towels beer off his shirt. “Born in Melbourne, but he’s a Sydney boy now. He knows about wonky apartment blocks and traffic jams already!”

“I’m always looking for new ideas to upset Cook! ”