I was summoned to another delightful tea party by my honorary grandchildren a few days ago.

It was, I suspect, intended to provide some light relief from the dreaded Sats tests which have been haunting them over the past week or so.

They both do very well at school, as I know from their school reports, but if everybody else seems to be shaking in their shoes, it is considered uncool not to be laid back about exams and being uncool is to be avoided.

But there was an air of subtle excitement when I was taken into the confidence of my granddaughter who was absolutely bubbling over with suppressed news.

Ever since our darling pooch, Freebie, was called to the Elysian Fields, the children have been without close contact with a dog, something very dear to their hearts and the subject of some considerable discussion with their parents.

The domestic zoo has grown to include two guinea pigs to keep the stick insects company - and very pretty they are too.

But you can't take a guinea pig for a walk. Even a cuddle has its own built-in hazards, if you get my drift, and stick insects tend to disappear into the scenery too easily to be satisfactory companions for a cosy chat.

But a dog, well, that is a whole different ball game. I feel a bit responsible, in a way, because it was playing with Freebie that introduced them in the first place to the fun you could have with a dog of your own.

The excitement stemmed from a visit they had made to a dog show where there was a variety of classes for everything from the most beautiful dog to the ugliest, the funniest to the most obedient and anything in between.

As they watched, entranced at the variety of contenders, to their unbelievable excitement they were asked if they would like to show two of the dogs in the judging ring.

They could not believe their luck and promptly started to get to know their charges, two very small and very vocal Yorkshire terriers.

"And do you know, Granny Lis, they liked us straight away and did what we told them and they were so cuddly and sweet ..."

By the time I had had a whistle-stop tour of all the contestants I felt I knew their antecedents almost as well as Cruft's did.

But there was more to come as I was guided through the minutiae of the show ring, right down to the last seven contenders. That is where the real world struck.

Seven contenders and six rosettes.

What a difficult situation. I was thankful I was not a judge. A young friend of my granddaughter said, with a slight catch in her voice: "I was the one who didn't get a rosette", while my granddaughter said, with an understandable note of pride: "I got a rosette," and then honesty intervened as she added: "It was the last one - I came sixth."

It would not have mattered if they had come 96th. They had tasted blood and were happy to have seen the bright lights of showbusiness.

They showed me the rosette, I saw it pinned on and we sat and discussed the whole episode again and again, like veterans talking over a well-fought campaign.

I would not put any major sum of money on their parents winning the inevitable discussion, which is clearly shaping up to be one of the major assaults of the summer.

I'm keeping my head below the parapet.

I thought I might share with you a real little gem so you realise how well those clever people who live in those ivory castles called town halls spend your money.

The following advertisement appeared in a local paper, put in by the local education authority: "A multi-agency project catering for holistic diversionary provision to young people for positive action."

A course in rocket science? I hear you asking, or maybe Sanskrit?

Prepare to be amazed - it was for a course in go-karting! Who does think up this purple prose?