Granda Kev

BONJOUR! Taking two young adorable grandkids to Paris and up the Eiffel Tower was so exhausting I need a holiday.

To be fair to the children, they could do with a break from sarcy quips about Blackpool Tower being better.

The Lancashire attraction does boast a knee-trembling glass walkway – a test of courage the French monument lacks.

But – and I’m sorry Red Rose folk – Gustave Eiffel’s imposing masterpiece, which opened five years earlier (1889) and is twice as high (330 metres over 158) overlooks the more glamorous City of Light. We enjoyed three days of laughter, which leaves me a tad sad that the grandkids won’t remember all the fun unless I make it my life’s work to bore them with photos and reminiscences.

Canny C, at 19 months, may still be a lost cause but Little L at just over threeand-a-half years is a promising bet.

I hope so, the miles I carried that lad on my shoulders. By bedtime I was as tired as a coal delivery man heaving sacks all day.

He might recall the Eurostar journey for the wrong reasons. Little L expected to see fish as we roared under the Channel, rather than 31 miles of blackness.

Painting the walls sea blue and drawing pictures of marine life would transform the stretch into an adventure. Pity Little L isn’t on the Chunnel board.

Parisians have an undeserved reputation for rudeness. A pushchair with a second adorable child standing nearby is the best queue-jumping machine there is.

Eiffel Tower? No need to wait, monsieur. Pompidou Centre? Ici is le special porte.

Waiters were equally welcoming. Granda Kev’s top tip is to eat at a table against the wall so the constant sound of dropped knives and forks doesn’t annoy as many diners. Next time I’ll try harder not to knock cutlery off the table as often. The grandkids were no trouble.