Saying good-night to her grandfather when he came to visit was a nightmare. Not that she was a particularly shy child, but there was something about that old, immobile form, sitting upright in the big armchair, his skull cap on his bald head, his little eyes peering from beneath his white, bushy eyebrows, his large nose jutting out of his 'hairy face'. Yes, that was it: the prickly bush of white, coarse hair that grew over his cheeks and chin and rested on his chest, thick, curly, slightly stained from nicotine. That was the frightening thing.

It was the same every night: down to the drawing room, hair neatly brushed, best dress, white socks, shiny patent leather shoes. Mother would say, "Come and say good night to Grandpapa, dear." The long walk across the thick carpet to the dreaded chair, two old hands under her armpits hoisted her onto bony knees, so she sat as if on a horse, her short legs stuck out on either side, her hands clutching the woolen shawl wrapped around the old man's shoulders.

"Have you had a nice day, child?"

"Yes, thank you, Grandpapa."

What should she tell him to delay the inevitable? The dreadful feel of his beard and whiskers as he hoisted her further into his lap and bent his old head so that she could reach up with her soft mouth and peck at that bristly bush!

"Be a good girl and sleep well, and give your old grandfather a kiss."

That was the signal. She raised her head. "Good night, Grandpapa," she whispered into the hairy cheek. Then she slid backwards off his knobbly knees.

It was over. Perhaps he wasn't staying long. Perhaps he might die in the night. But that was wicked. As she toiled up the stairs she wondered why she had to kiss him; she really didn't love him like she did her mother and father. If only he didn't have such a scratchy beard.