GETTING to know our first grandchild, Chloe, is proving to be one of the great joys of our lives.

We really can’t get enough of her and I was delighted to get a message from my wife last week, saying that Chloe’s mum and dad had brought her round for the evening.

I was up in Durham at the time because I had a prior engagement to speak at the annual general meeting of The Samaritans, but I was promised that our precious new baby would still be there when I got home.

Speech completed by 8.30pm, I set off back down the A1, desperately looking forward to seeing the new light of my life. That was until my car suddenly ran out of power and I realised, to my horror, that I’d run out of petrol.

There are no excuses other than that I was distracted and over-excited by the thought of seeing Chloe. Nevertheless, it was an undoubtedly a very stupid thing to do.

Recalling that I’d just passed a sign for Sedgefield Services, I left the car on the hard-shoulder with the warning lights flashing and started walking, with the occasional jog, through the darkness. My vague plan was to get some petrol and beg a lift back to my car.

I made two calls on my mobile: the first to the police to let them know why there was an abandoned Vauxhall Zafira on the A1; the second to my wife to let her know I’d be late home. The policewoman who answered was very understanding and sympathetic. My wife wasn’t.

Thankfully, my eldest son – Chloe’s dad, otherwise known as The Big Friendly Giant (BFG) – immediately called back to say he was coming to my rescue.

“Thanks, son,” I replied, telling him to bring the can of petrol that I keep in the garden shed for the lawn-mower, and to meet me at Sedgefield Services.

As it turned out, I’d seriously underestimated the walking distance to the petrol station. In my head, it was a few hundred yards away but it turned out to be something like two and a half miles, which is a long way when you’re trudging through wet grass verges to stay safe from the traffic hurtling past.

Nearly an hour had passed by the time I rendezvoused with the BFG who greeted me with a shake of the head and a wry smile.

We drove in silence back up the A1, past my flashing car on the opposite carriageway, and kept going for another couple of miles before coming off at the first available junction, then doubling back down the motorway.

Just as I thought the ordeal was nearly over, I discovered that the nozzle was missing from the petrol can so I had no way of getting the fuel into the car. When Chloe was born, I decided I would be a wise, respected grandad who knows everything and is calm in a crisis, like the Grandpa in The Waltons. But that ambition was rapidly blowing up in my face as I let out a cry of anguish into the night sky.

There was no choice but to return to the service station, where we had to buy a whole new petrol can for £6.99 just so we could use the nozzle.

Then it was north up the A1 again, past the hazard warning lights for a second time, round the junction, and back down the motorway to my stricken car.

By now, it was just after 11pm and starting to rain. I was cold and tired, with sopping socks and mud-splattered trousers, and a lorry-driver honked his horn as he roared by in his cosy cab, showering me with spray.

I felt like calling The Samaritans.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

ENSURING we had the fullest tank of petrol possible, we visited our son, Jack, at university at the weekend.

He’d arranged for us to join him at a posh dinner at his college on Saturday night and, just as we were arriving, it was hard not to notice that we were surrounded by young women dressed as “flappers” and young men in trilby hats.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you – it’s a Great Gatsby theme,” he casually announced.

THANKS to Eva Stainsby who got in touch via Facebook to tell me how her grand-daughter, aged eight at the time, came over for a hug before leaving for home.

“Oh, Gran, I’m nearly as tall as you,” she said before adding: “And I’m going to get bigger while you grow shorter. Then you’ll be dead.”

THANK YOU

FINALLY, a sincere thank you to all those who sent good wishes, and more, following the arrival of Chloe and the consequent transition of this long-running column from Dad At Large to Grandad At Large. It really is greatly appreciated.