Innocence and experience come together over tea

Watching my grandmother with Astrid, her great-granddaughter, I cannot help but think about the chasm of years yawning between them.

My grandmother has stopped off in Abu Dhabi for a few days on her way to New Zealand to drive around the country in a camper van. She is 88 years old and her eyesight is poor, so "being driven" would be more accurate. Nevertheless, her appetite for adventure and new experiences is inspiring. It makes me think twice before I say that I "can't do" something for whatever reason. Watching her with Astrid, her great-granddaughter, I cannot help but think about the chasm of years yawning between them. There is something about this leapfrogging of generations that highlights the vastness of life as well as its fleetingness.

The nuclear family's tiny, barely noticeable, increments of time passing are replaced by bigger chunks. Seconds, minutes and hours are replaced by days, months and years. The blur of day-to-day life comes into sharper focus. The most visible contrast between them is in their faces. Both are beautiful, but my grandmother's is amazing. Astrid's is smooth and unblemished, while hers is a craggy network of wrinkles.

Mr grandmother's face reminds me of the playwright Samuel Beckett. It is exquisitely carved with the marks of a life lived. It is a work of art. It deserves to be the subject of a monochrome photograph by Henri Cartier Bresson. My grandmother has met her great-granddaughter many times before, but this visit is the first time Astrid has been old enough to interact in a meaningful way. At nine months old she has developed a lot of personality as well as the ability to express it. She has become a little person.

I guess that is why the contrast between them has become so apparent. Four generations and nearly 90 years stand between their births. It is obvious that a lot has happened and a lot changed in those years, but during lunch the continuities come to seem more profound than the differences. Sunlight streams in through the window. We eat bread, cheese and salad and drink cups of tea. My grandmother and Astrid play together. If you ignore the details, if you forget about the differences in the furniture or the style of clothes or the type of food, the scene could be a mealtime in my grandmother's infancy so many years ago. Perhaps her great-grandmother was at the table then.

Suddenly, amid the talking and the stories and the banter, a hand reaches out across the ages, a living link over centuries of which Astrid is a part. Ageing, I remember thinking at this point, is not the frightening occurrence it is often made out to be. It is inevitable, so it is better to embrace it than shun it. No amount of exercise or diet or plastic surgery can truly stop or reverse it, so why not accept it as the achievement it is?

One of the problems for expats living in Abu Dhabi is the distance from immediate family, such as grandparents, aunts and uncles, who live many thousands of miles away. Such isolation makes life with children harder, unless of course you employ surrogate family such as nannies. Astrid is missing out on the variety and diversity that come from interacting with people of different ages. I remember being looked after by my auntie or grandmother on many occasions. So far Astrid has had to settle for intermittent bouts of transcontinental babysitting. Perhaps this is just another part of globalisation.

We have finally fled the dingy hovel where we spent the last nine months. We have left behind its blocked drains, its intermittent air conditioning and its host of other problems. Our new apartment has more rooms, a balcony and is far better maintained. It is lighter and brighter and quieter. I'd assumed the move would be a universally happy event, welcomed by all of the family. But Astrid did not take it well. She was puzzled by the change of surroundings. She burst into tears when we went around the old apartment to clean up. She was distressed by the sight of the empty rooms and the lack of toys and furniture.

It is easy to forget that this dreadful apartment was Astrid's first home. It was the place where she has spent most of her life so far. It was the realm in which she developed her sense of self. I hope subsequent moves will not be as traumatic.