You’re right, you don’t even need to ask which Grandad, because one of them’s a “normal”, and the other very clearly isn’t.
Whenever I have talked about blaming my “parents” for the way I am, I did of course mean one of them, VERY MUCH more so than the other. I mean Grandma’s nuts but we like her. Everyone has one good parent and one we’d rather we could go back in time in a Dolorian to ensure our mother never met. My Dad, your Grandad, is two parts Travis Bickle, to one part Alan Partridge. He’s an unusual mix of psychotic and hilariously awkward.
I’m going to start with a positive example of this because in all honestly, on this blog I intend to slag him off a LOT. One of the best things Grandad ever did for me, aside from figuratively burning an example-based manual on “How Not To Behave” into my psyche, is he gave me true inner self-confidence.
Grandad gave me inner self-confidence, not by spending quality-time with me (obviously you’ve met him – or the side of his head whilst he’s on his mobile anyway) but by always making sure I knew I was loved.
Now “ordinary” parents might do this by being available, asking about your day, or as we do, monitoring your every move as though you were made of porcelain. Not Grandad, oh no, this is an example of one of the conversations we’d regularly have about how much he loved me:-