IN all honesty, I try my best to be a good son. I ring my mum every day without fail and at weekends I drive 25 miles to spend a few hours with her and take her some Sunday lunch.

My wife cooks it and I deliver it. I am a super-reliable meals-on-wheels service, and I do it with a smile because my mum’s in her 80s and I love her to bits.

I also take Dylan, the lovable border collie, with me. He belongs to friends of ours in the village, but I borrow him on Sundays to take him to see “Grandma”.

Now, here’s the rub. My mum clearly looks forward to seeing Dylan more than me.

Let’s be clear: Dylan doesn’t arrive at her door with a plateful of Yorkshire puds, roast spuds, chicken breast, vegetables, gravy, all the trimmings, and an apple pie for pud.

He just jumps out of the car and trots up the garden path with a waggy tail and his nose in the air.

Last Sunday, my mum opened the door when she saw him coming, let him in, and then shut it before I was halfway up the path.

I have no doubt it was only when she remembered her Sunday lunch that she opened it again.

“I almost forgot you were there,” she said, taking the plate off me.

Dylan always gets a big fuss made of him and a doggie biscuit as soon as he’s in the house, while I usually have to make a cup of tea for myself.

And, once Grandma’s scoffed her lunch, she takes Dylan out into the garden for a game of chase the ball.

They’re out there for ages, while I read the paper or watch the telly on my own.

After they’ve played in the garden, it’s time for Dylan’s beauty treatment.

Grandma gets out her collection of combs and brushes, and grooms him from his ears down to his tail.

She says things like: “Ooh, you’re a lovely boy”… “Ooh, I’ve missed you”… and “Ooh, you make my day”.

There’s never an “ooh” when she talks to me.

When it’s time for us to leave, I get a cursory hug and Dylan gets a fullblown cuddle.

“I’ll see you next week,” I’ll say to her. “Okay,” she says. “You won’t forget Dylan, will you?”

Yes, I admit it, I’m jealous of a dog.

I don’t want a biscuit. I don’t want what’s left of my hair brushed. I don’t want to have a ball thrown for me. I don’t want my ears tickled. I don’t even want to lie on my back and have my tummy scratched.

But a little bit of attention isn’t too much to ask for the meals-on-wheels man, is it?

The things they say

MANY thanks to the members of Spennymoor West Women’s Institute who have supplied me with a long list of “things they say” which will be appearing in forthcoming columns...

SANDRA Heslop told how she was driving five-year-old granddaughter Chloe to school and the little girl asked: “Nana, why can’t we see this morning?”

“That’s because it’s foggy,” replied Sandra.

There was a pause before Chloe asked: “Well, why have the clouds come down to the pavement?”

GERALDINE Densham told of the time she’d been making nativity figures with the children at play church and her husband had moved them.

“Where did Joseph, Mary and the donkey go?” she asked.

“Bethlehem,” replied four-yearold son Owen, quick as a flash.

JULIE Wilson was teaching at Tudhoe Moor Nursery School and explaining to the children about the breathing process.

“Can anyone remember what we call the air we breathe out?” she asked the next day.

There was a silence, so she gave them a clue: “It starts with car...”

“Carbonara!” shouted a little girl.

  • You can follow me on Twitter @echopeterbarron