Deliciously naughty BAD joy of being a granny

Granddaughter Isi, four at the time, had been out of my sight for just a couple of minutes, but I was aware of an unnerving quietness.

She was in the bathroom and, with my make-up, was in the process of plastering the faces of her teddies and stuffed toys.

So the favourite bear had glistening red lips, the giraffe green eye shadow, applied as thickly as cement. the fluffy cat was ruddy-cheeked with blusher as well as a rich orange lip gloss. another bear had been given a full-face foundation cover.

I should have blown a fuse. Make-up is expensive and I rightly suspected Isi’s mother might not be thrilled at having to scrub the creatures clean. I’d have done it, but my cleaning efforts are considered beyond inadequate by my family.

I couldn’t resist laughing in a way that I guess signalled solidarity. Isi looked so delighted with what she was doing and I had forgotten how, as a tired mother at the end of the day, these kind of highjinks are the last thing you need. Welcome to the world of the Bad granny.

We have an unusual family set-up. My husband, Olly, and I are in our 70s, but we share our London home with our elder son and his wife. We have the top floors; they have the first floor.

We adore our granddaughter, now five, and grandson Si, two, who spend a lot of time with us; we have spontaneous family meals and are very close. But it does mean my grandparenting failures are laid bare.

the children come onto our roof terrace and initiate water games that are the best fun — except when their parents are scandalised by the sight of them dripping head to foot in the middle of winter. how negligent of me not to notice!

I do try to be a proper granny sometimes. there was the time I decided to make a quilted cover for Si when he was six months old. the wonky shape and seams were considered amusing, but then the parents discovered a needle left inside the padding and I was seen as a health-and-safety risk.

In many ways I’m a senior version of the rebellious teenager, driving my children mad by defying their parental way of doing things. even at my age I delight in saying ‘Ya boo!’ to authority.

after all, I, like many grans today, grew up around the counter-culture of the 1960s. We didn’t have all these rules in my day — we partied late and drank throughout pregnancy. When I was three months pregnant, I went to Sri Lanka and climbed the holy mountain adam’s Peak. at six months pregnant, I drove in a van from Cornwall to Scotland.

NOW my grown-up sons are hulking men, I look back on the way I did things and gasp. dropping sausages on the floor and putting them back on the plate. Or the time we had a riotous, and nearly fatal, time canoeing the rapids of the ardeche in France with the boys aged four and seven, camping overnight and waking up to floods edging towards our tent.

My son and daughter-in-law believe in strict bedtimes. Olly and I were inclined to pop our tiddlers into bed with us. When my elder son reached six I would put him to bed, read him a story or two or three, assuming he would drop off. Instead he stayed wide awake.

I hadn’t the heart to shut him in his bedroom or scare him into staying put. that changed the night I was standing by the window at 10pm gnashing my teeth and this small voice said: ‘You can’t cope, can you?’

I believed in getting around the table for meals, but it never seemed to matter if they ate elegantly with a knife and fork or like gorillas, as long as they understood that when people visited, they would be more popular if they were well-mannered.

With that background, it was unlikely I was going to grow up to be a traditional grandparent. I am also, ahem, less willing than some of my peers to be on tap for limitless babysitting. Why would I want to sacrifice my evenings off dancing the tango with my Old Man?

Writing is a vital part of my life and I am hard-hearted about not stepping in — unless it’s an emergency — if it conflicts with a book that needs research time or an article to finish.

Bad grandmothering makes sense for those of us who see grandchildren as small people with whom to share a bit of anarchy. that and glorious fits of laughter, wild embraces, sudden sweet confessions of affection and a good deal of childishness.

One of my greatest pleasures is biting the top off an orange and sucking out the juice, with all the zesty noise that entails. I was doing it in front of Isi one day when she told me earnestly: ‘Mama says that is not the way to eat oranges.’ does she now, I remarked: ‘Well she’s missing out.’

Yet while I may not tick the boxes for a perfect gran, I love picking up Isi from school once a week, while she and Si come for playtime most afternoons.

Olly and I delight in seeing them on the swinging ropes he has put up in our sitting room. But when they leave at 5.30pm, I happily reach for the wine bottle.

We don’t feel any compunction about going off on our travels and forgetting all about them for weeks. Olly and I have been having fun together for 43 years and that’s not going to stop.

now, my younger son and his wife are expecting their first baby in September, so I shall have another shot at proving my credentials.

I may not be a great lap to sit in or smell of lavender water, but I crack daft jokes and gallop around the park with them.

Imperfect as I may be in the granny department, no one has ever given me a better present than a grandchild.