GRANNY bore? I hope not. Some kind friends this week asked to see pictures of my grandchildren so I immediately whipped out my phone.

But owing to a recent rare spate of high living, I seemed to have more pictures of cocktails than children… The beaming baby and cheeky toddler were outnumbered by glass after glass of interesting concoctions and drinking companions in various fancy bars.

Momentarily disconcerting but ultimately healthy, I decided, as the conversation veered from babies to the best bars in London.

No one could be a more besotted granny than I, but coming fairly late to grannyhood I know all too well that endless conversations of other people’ s grandchildren can be, well, just a bit much sometimes. Fine if you know the children, but all too often you don’t.

Even worse if you’re the only non-granny in a group outdoing each other in boasting. Grim.

At least when your friends first start having babies, you know the babies and can make some connection and interest with the small creatures. But you probably never see other people’s grandchildren . They often live miles away, even in other continents and are no more than small anonymous blobs on a phone screen. Quite tricky to get enthusiastic about.

Of course, other grannies and I compare notes. But that’s between consenting adults in private, an indulgence when no non-grannies are around.

But, other people’s feelings apart, there’s another reason I don’t mind the cocktails to baby pics ratio.

The children are too young to grasp the import of all those posh drinks – though I reckon the nearly three year old has a pretty good idea. They doubtless see me as the mad old bat who turns up clutching books and chocolate buttons and, apart from insisting on pleases and thank yous, is their slave all the time I’m with them.

So maybe as they get older it won’t do any harm for them to see their granny as an occasionally extravagant drinker of extravagant drinks in fancy places. If nothing else, it proves I have a life away from them, a life of my own.

That’s no bad thing in a granny – or in a mother either.

In the meantime, would you like to see a picture of my Bellini?

I made Welshcakes on Tuesday. It was St David’s Day so seemed like a good idea. My mother used to make Welshcakes directly on the top of the Aga, a quick treat on her half day. My grandmother made them on a coal-fired range under a wooden rack of airing clothes, in a kitchen full of rag rugs and brass ornaments.

Eat a Welshcake and I’m back there, my head not much higher than the table. A very easy sort of time travel.

Good or bad, food from our childhood has a special hold on us. It literally made us what we are – whether it’s delicious roast dinners and home-made puddings, or white sliced bread and cheap red jam. We can’t escape it.

It’s why grown up gourmets can still go misty eyed over such dubious treats Findus pancakes, Angel Delight and Vesta curries.

We are what we eat. So a bit of me will always be a Welshcake. Which could explain a lot.

FOUR mothers from York are record breakers – the oldest all-female crew ever to row across and ocean. The women, aged between 45 and 52, spent sixty seven days at sea rowing from the Canary Islands to Antigua, dealing with hurricanes, blisters, broken equipment and visiting whales.

As well as breaking records, the crew have also raised masses of money for a cancer support centre and the Yorkshire Air Ambulance. They also lost lots of weight and, amazingly, are still speaking to each other after two months of being exhausted and never more than a few feet apart.

Respect. Total respect. At home they have children, husbands, jobs, lives, plenty of commitments, yet managed to find the time, energy and determination not just for the trip itself but all the months of training and preparation. Impressive.

And you think you haven’t got time for just an hour at the gym?

AT last! A government review panel is considering an idea I suggested years ago. To make pensions fairer, I suggested that instead of determining retirement on age, we should do it on years worked. So that if we decided working life was forty five years, then people who started work at 16 could retire at 61. Those who started after university at 22 would have to carry on until 67.

It seemed fair – especially as the better educated would probably be doing less physically demanding work and could totter on a bit more easily.

It’s now one of many options that a working party is looking at. But I wouldn’t hold your breath. By the time they make any decisions we’ll probably all be working until we’re 90 anyway.

Six men on a stag party never made it all the way from Luton to Bratislava. Instead, the pilot made a diversion to Berlin and handed them over to the German police. The men were clearly very drunk, aggressive and utterly obnoxious. So why on earth did Ryanair even let them board in the first place?

Makes you quite nostalgic for the Olden Days doesn’t it when Saturday morning streets were littered with nothing more disturbing than naked grooms tied to lamp-posts. Seems positively wholesome now.