The ball bounced off Gramps’ shiny, bald head, glanced off the windowsill and caught the rim of Grandma Lucy’s eighteenth-century fine china vase – her most valuable and treasured heirloom – which stood on the antique oak chest in the hall. It rocked from side to side, revolved on its base and gyrated in slow motion towards the edge. 

Gramps was transfixed, mesmerised by the balletic motion of the world’s last remaining porcelain object from the reign of Queen Marmalade III, as he anticipated it shattering into a thousand worthless shards at his feet.

But Mazik had slid down the bannister head-first and launched himself across the hallway. He stretched a hand under the vase and caught it mid-flight, mere centimetres from the ground. He felt rather proud of himself.

‘Ee, that were magic, Mazik!’ marvelled Gramps. ‘But if tha Grandma knew, she’d have yer guts for garters, lad.’

‘One point for a head bounce and a bonus point for the catch. I win!’

‘’Eckers like! Tha can’t mek up rules as tha goes along, son!’

‘I’m the Rule Maker, Gramps!’

‘Who says?’

‘The Rule Maker: me!’ shouted Mazik. ‘Anyway, you could have caught it!’

‘Nay, lad, mi left foot’s seventy-five years old! Ah’m not so nimble as thee. Anyway, tha lost three points for hittin’ Grandma’s best vase, so tha loses, young ’un!’

‘Aw, Gramps! It’s not fair! Invent a game where we don’t break stuff.’

‘Right, lad, let’s be off t’DIY.’

‘Be off to die?’

‘DIY. Do It Thysen!’

‘Why, Gramps?’

‘Tha’ll see, lad!’ Gramps’ twinkling eyes were mirrored by Mazik’s.