Granda Kev

KEVIN MAGUIRE

DICK Turpin held up fewer people than gift shops designed to rob you blind.

There I was, purring my grandkids loved an adventure with yours truly at the London Transport Museum.

They squealed with delight on old Tube carriages in better nick than the Piccadilly Line service we caught to Covent Garden.

Gleaming vintage red double-deckers had the big boy (me) reminiscing over the No11 to Cemetery Gates with Stan, Arthur, Olive and, of course, Blakey. Though thinking about it now, On the Buses’ “of its time” humour would be understandably unacceptable today.

Our visit was going swimmingly when

Little L and Canny C posed together, no squabbling, for a photo behind the wheel of one of those little hopper buses.

That doesn’t happen often, to be honest, a UN blue helmet required on occasions a younger CC pushes goodnatured elder brother LL out of the way.

There was none of that on this glorious day. Canny C didn’t even interrupt Little L driving a train simulator, Mick Whelan and Aslef pickets nowhere to be seen so it must have been a rare no-strike day.

Brio are missing a trick, by the way. The children’s rail set would accelerate profits faster than a Eurostar by selling figures of Brother Mick and his members holding placards outside stations.

Other museums and experiences are available, many of them free, but I expect to get my money’s worth from a £24 annual pass – the young ’uns are free – a whole quid cheaper than a Heathrow Express £25 single from Paddington.

If, that is, I ignore way out signs sending grandparents and parents through a gift shop turbo-charging pester power.

I’d be on the street had I bought every piece of exorbitantly-priced tat they instantly needed. Playing the Grinch is to plummet from hero to zero in the time it takes to put everything back on the shelf. Parliament isn’t doing much.

Pass a law banning exits through highwaymen’s shops. Please.