I wonder just how does God cope with us down here

I am suffering from multiple repetitive strain Injury, mainly in both index fingers and lower back.

I am victim of 2ft-something creature who insists that I repeatedly do things that somebody twice her height and five times her weight shouldn't do.

In industry, RSI in index fingers would be actionable, especially because 2ft-something being shows little regard for my well being.

I offer hand. She grabs finger. At 15 months, she does not wish to be held. She wants to hold. Control!

Her unspoken prayer? 'Grandfather, who art in the heavens above me, hello, be my slave. My will be done on this earth, not thy will up there.'

And, as she milks my finger, as if an udder under attack from a maladroit midget dairyman, I get to wondering just how does God cope with us down here.

I mean, yesterday we gave 2ft-something her freedom. No nappies to encumber. Peach nether regions ripening in the evening breeze. And what does she do? On the plush lounge carpet?

Not wishing to sour your sweet Saturday evening bring-home Chinese, suffice to write that it was done with reddening face and the roar of a centurion tank backfiring. Nor was the colouring down to embarrassment.

It's not a million miles away from what 5ft-somethings do with their freedom on God's plush planet. Man's the only species to blush, and that needs to.

Yet still our Father up there, and everywhere, loves us.

When we reach up, he's absolutely delighted, even more than I am when grabbed by my gorgeous granddaughter - RSI and everything.