Folks, I love our granddaughter, but sometimes she can be tough to love.

For example, I was recently tasked with picking her up from day care and felt honoured until I discovered that I was the absolute last resort. Slightly deflated, I set sail, signed in, then endured the interrogation most strange males must get when they appear to pick up a little girl in one of these institutions.

My story checked out, so I was lead to the main holding pen where a mob of red-faced kids were running riot. Their ring-leader was Granddaughter #1.

She was delighted to see me and, racing over, threw her arms around my legs bringing the solid plastic dinosaur she was holding into direct contact with a very sensitive part of my groin.

Now, I’ve been hit in this area before by sporting balls, knees, frisbees, elbows, garden tools and on one unforgettable occasion, the rock-hard nose of a leaping dog that thought I had food in my pants’ pockets. But, nothing has hurt as much as that dinky dinosaur.

I fell to my knees in shock and my granddaughter, thinking I was stooping for a hug, gleefully headbutted me in the face.

Gripping my nose with one hand, I struggled to my feet, and avoided grasping my traumatised groin by placing the other hand on my hip and performing a demented version of the hokey pokey. The kids eagerly joined in, and through the tears I could see several attendants watching our little show and wondering what on earth was going on.

Eventually one of them realised I was drowning and wandered over to help. Together, we wrangled the little tyke out of the playground, found her bag and hat, and by the time we reached the car I was walking normally again; more or less.

“I like you picking me up Grandad!” she beamed as I wrestled her into the car seat. Gazing at her innocent, smiling, little dial I replied, “Me too darling.” Slamming her door shut, I leaned against the car and sighed, “Even if you are killing me.”