Thursday - Gel Studios and the Lego Problem

At what age are you supposed to stop getting excited about Lego, and why has nobody told Grandad Bryan?

After Wednesday’s expedition to London, where Harriet had experienced commuting, artificial intelligence, skyscrapers and the curious behaviour of adults in offices, Thursday brought another workplace adventure.

This time we were heading to Gel Studios.

Harriet was becoming rather experienced at visiting grown-up workplaces by now. She had learned that offices were not simply places where adults disappeared for eight hours and returned home saying they had been “really busy”.

There could be interesting things inside them.

And Gel Studios had discovered one particularly effective way of getting Harriet’s attention.

Lego.

Lots of Lego.

Almost immediately, the important question of the day changed from What does this company actually do? to How much Lego does one office need?

The answer appeared to be:

More.

There were models everywhere. Cars, characters, buildings and creations that clearly required considerably more patience than Grandad Bryan possessed.

Harriet wandered along inspecting them carefully.

Grandad Bryan wandered along inspecting them even more carefully.

It was difficult to tell which of us was ten.

Then we discovered the main collection.

Shelves were filled with models.

Harriet stopped.

Grandad Bryan stopped.

For several minutes, all normal adult conversation ceased.

This was serious.

There is something wonderfully odd about Lego. When you’re a child, adults tell you that one day you’ll grow out of it.

Then you become an adult, discover Lego sets costing hundreds of pounds and realise that Lego has been patiently waiting for you to acquire a salary.

Grandad Bryan began examining the collection.

“That’s good.”

Harriet nodded.

“Oh, look at that one.”

Another model.

Then another.

At this point Harriet was probably beginning to wonder who the visit was actually for.

There was something else about Gel Studios that Harriet liked. It felt creative.

It wasn’t simply rows of desks. There were things to look at, ideas around the walls and evidence that the people working there were still allowed to make things.

That mattered.

Only the day before, Harriet had been using artificial intelligence to create digital fish. Now she was surrounded by things that had been physically built piece by tiny piece.

Two completely different sorts of creativity.

Harriet understood both without anybody needing to explain them.

Grandad Bryan mostly understood that he wanted more Lego.

By the time we left, Harriet had experienced another type of workplace.

Grandad Bryan had experienced a serious relapse into childhood.

So, at what age are you supposed to stop getting excited about Lego?

Apparently not ten.

And definitely not fifty-eight.

Friday - Girls’ Day, Costa and the Disappearance of Financial Supervision

What happens when you send Dana and Harriet shopping together and remove Grandad Bryan from all financial supervision?

Nothing good for the bank account.

Friday was different.

Grandad Bryan was not required.

In fact, it was becoming increasingly clear that his presence might actively interfere with the day’s objectives.

Dana and Harriet were going shopping.

Together.

This was a girls’ day.

Grandad Bryan recognised the warning signs and stayed out of it.

Dana and Harriet have a shared ability when shopping. They can walk into a shop needing absolutely nothing and, within minutes, discover several things that have apparently been missing from their lives for years.

Grandad Bryan approaches shopping differently.

“Do you need it?”

This is not considered helpful.

So off Dana and Harriet went without him.

There were shops to investigate, clothes to examine and bargains to discover.

Harriet tried things on while Dana provided advice, encouragement and, crucially, absolutely none of Grandad Bryan’s questions about whether there was already something almost identical at home.

Eventually Harriet appeared wearing a wonderfully colourful outfit.

There was no attempt at subtlety.

Why choose one colour when you can wear most of them simultaneously?

Naturally, serious shopping requires refreshments.

They stopped at Costa.

Harriet’s drink arrived.

Calling it a “drink” was perhaps technically accurate in the same way that calling a trifle “a bit of fruit” is technically accurate.

There was cream.

There was fruit.

There was ice.

There were various other ingredients apparently added because nobody had yet said stop.

Harriet held it up proudly.

Grandad Bryan would probably have ordered a latte.

This was another reason he hadn’t been invited.

Dana and Harriet continued their shopping expedition, returning eventually with bags, purchases and the unmistakable expressions of two people who had enjoyed themselves enormously.

Grandad Bryan looked at the bags.

“Did you buy much?”

Dana gave him the look.

“Just a few things.”

Grandad Bryan has travelled with Dana long enough to understand that a few things is not a legally defined quantity.

He decided not to investigate further.

There was something lovely about Friday, though.

Not every day with Harriet needed to involve London, offices, technology or carefully planned adventures.

Sometimes it could simply be Dana and Harriet wandering around shops together, laughing, trying things on and stopping for something containing an unreasonable quantity of whipped cream.

Grandad Bryan wasn’t there for most of it.

Which, judging by how much they enjoyed themselves, may have been the secret to its success.

Saturday - How Wet Is Too Wet?

At what point does a woodland walk stop being “lovely fresh air” and become “why are we still doing this?”

Saturday gave us an opportunity to investigate.

The British weather had arrived.

Properly.

There is a particular sort of British rain that doesn’t necessarily look dramatic through a window. You glance outside and think:

“That’s not too bad.”

This is how it gets you.

Ten minutes later you’re in the middle of a wood with rain dripping off your nose, water finding its way down the back of your neck and your shoes making noises they have never made before.

Harriet, however, was dressed for it.

Waterproof on.

Wellies on.

Ready.

Grandad Bryan looked at the sky.

“It’ll probably clear up.”

Dana gave him the look.

Grandad Bryan has said this on numerous occasions.

The weather has rarely felt obliged to cooperate.

Off we went anyway.

The woodland had changed completely in the rain. Leaves shone with water, the earth smelled damp and rich, and puddles spread across the paths.

Harriet wandered happily through it.

Rain pattered against the leaves above us.

Our feet squelched along the path.

Harriet remained cheerful.

This is one of the differences between children and adults.

An adult sees a puddle and thinks:

My shoes.

A child sees exactly the same puddle and thinks:

Excellent.

Harriet’s wellies were therefore being used correctly.

Grandad Bryan’s footwear was less enthusiastic.

Every so often we stopped beneath the trees, where the leaves provided approximately three seconds of protection before releasing a large stored drop of water directly down somebody’s neck.

It wasn’t a glamorous expedition.

It wasn’t somewhere famous.

There was no Paddington Bear, no skyscraper and no AI-generated underwater reindeer.

It was simply us wandering through the woods together in the rain.

And sometimes those are the bits you remember.

The wet paths.

The smell of the trees.

Harriet laughing.

Grandad Bryan continuing to insist it was “definitely getting brighter over there”.

It wasn’t.

By the time we got home, everyone was ready to be warm and dry.

Fortunately, Harriet knew exactly where to go.

The hot tub was waiting.

Sunday - The Marlborough Spa

Can a hot tub, a facial and enough pink hair equipment turn a wet weekend into a luxury spa break?

According to Dana and Harriet, yes.

According to Grandad Bryan, the house had somehow become a health spa without management approval.

After all the rain and walking, Harriet headed for the hot tub.

Within minutes, she was surrounded by warm water and bubbles while the jets churned away around her.

Behind her was a sign:

Our Happy Place.

It was difficult to argue.

Harriet was grinning.

The hot tub has several seats, each with different jets.

A normal person might choose one and relax.

Harriet needed to test them.

All of them.

This was apparently scientific research.

She moved around, trying different seats while bubbles burst around her.

At some point Harriet appeared at the kitchen window.

Wet hair.

Big grin.

“What do you want?” Grandad Bryan asked.

The exact answer was almost irrelevant.

The kitchen window had effectively become a swim-up bar.

Eventually Harriet emerged from the hot tub.

Grandad Bryan assumed this meant spa operations had finished.

He was wrong.

That evening, Dana announced that Harriet was having a facial.

There were creams.

There were packets.

There were various items that Grandad Bryan wisely decided not to ask about.

Then Harriet appeared wearing a sheet mask.

Grandad Bryan stared at her.

For a moment, she looked like an extremely small bank robber who had decided skincare was important before the robbery.

Dana and Harriet seemed perfectly happy.

Grandad Bryan remained at a safe distance.

Then came the hair.

Long pink curling ribbons appeared.

Harriet’s hair was carefully wound around them ready for bed.

The procedure appeared complicated.

Sections were separated.

Hair was wrapped.

Things were clipped.

Grandad Bryan watched for a while before deciding this was clearly beyond his technical ability.

He could configure computers.

He could build websites.

He could probably explain artificial intelligence.

But apparently curling a ten-year-old’s hair required specialist training.

Harriet went to bed with her hair wrapped up.

Tomorrow would reveal whether the experiment had worked.

It would also bring another adventure.

The boot fair.

Which meant Harriet would be going from luxury spa guest to market trader in approximately twelve hours.

A remarkably diverse career.

Monday - Harriet Avery, Chief Executive of the Boot Fair

Can a ten-year-old turn a van full of things nobody wants into actual money before Grandad Bryan changes his mind and takes everything home again?

Monday morning began with the results of Sunday night’s hair experiment.

The pink curling equipment came out.

And there were curls.

Lots of curls.

Harriet inspected the result.

Success.

There wasn’t much time to admire them because Monday had a mission.

We were going to a boot fair.

Bandit was loaded.

Clothes.

Shoes.

Books.

Games.

Bags.

Various household objects.

And several things Grandad Bryan had apparently forgotten we owned.

A boot fair is a fascinating part of British life.

At home, you can own something for five years without looking at it once.

Put it on a folding table in a field and suddenly you’re emotionally attached to it.

“How much for this?”

“Two pounds.”

“I’ll give you fifty pence.”

Grandad Bryan immediately thinks:

Fifty pence? That’s worth at least two pounds.

This is despite the fact he was prepared to throw it away yesterday.

Harriet, however, quickly settled into the business.

Bandit became our headquarters.

Tables were unfolded.

Clothes were arranged.

Shoes were lined up.

A rail appeared beside the van.

For approximately four minutes, everything looked beautifully organised.

Then the customers arrived.

Harriet watched people browse.

Some picked things up.

Some put them down.

Some asked prices.

Then came the serious negotiators.

“How much?”

“£2.”

“Will you take £1?”

This is boot-fair economics.

Nobody simply pays the amount written on something. That would apparently bring the entire system into disrepute.

Harriet began to understand.

A smile helps.

Knowing your price helps.

And sometimes getting £1 for something you no longer want is considerably better than taking it home again.

Things began to sell.

Coins appeared.

Space started appearing on the tables.

Harriet seemed rather pleased with the whole process.

There is something wonderfully satisfying about somebody giving you actual money for an object that had previously been taking up space in a cupboard.

By the end, Harriet had gone from shopper on Friday to seller on Monday.

She had experienced both sides of the retail economy in a single weekend.

Dana had taught her how to spend.

The boot fair was teaching her how to earn it back.

Grandad Bryan considered this excellent financial education.

Although it would have been more effective if we hadn’t spent half the money on things from other people’s stalls.

And that was the strange thing about Harriet’s few days in Marlborough.

None of it had been one enormous adventure.

Instead, it was made up of dozens of little ones.

Lego at Gel Studios.

Shopping with Dana.

An outrageous Costa drink.

Walking through woods in the rain.

Laughing in the hot tub.

A Sunday-night facial.

Pink curling ribbons.

Standing beside Bandit while somebody handed Harriet money for something we’d forgotten we owned.

Small moments.

But those are often the ones that stay with you.

Harriet had arrived with books to read and energy to spare. Somewhere along the way she’d travelled to London, visited offices, screamed inside a soundproof booth, designed a city without poverty, discovered AI fish, survived Grandad Bryan’s cooking, swum a kilometre, shopped with Dana and briefly entered the second-hand retail industry.

And now her time in Marlborough was nearly over.

Grandad Bryan looked at everything that hadn’t sold at the boot fair.

Harriet looked at him.

“Do we have to take all that home?”

Grandad Bryan sighed.

Apparently, yes.

After a week of trying to create memories with his granddaughter, Grandad Bryan had accidentally created something else as well.

A van full of stuff that still needed putting back in the garage, or may be a trip to the tip….!