The wrath of the son of God, the rape of the PDP-Laban, atbp.

IN the weeks I have been ensconced in a sprawling farmhouse in a bucolic community with gentrified neighbors miles apart where horses are paddocked and cattle enclosed within corrals with wild deer roaming about freely, I find myself puttering around the estate, occupied with chores, which was why my daughter, Lara, had insisted that we spend the holidays with them in the first place. Since we have no yayas (nannies), Sylvia and I take turns hovering over our grandchildren, Oliver, Sylvie and Max, aged 6, 8 and 10, respectively, chauffeuring them to and from school — if their mom is not available. Their dad Matt is an excellent chef, concocting culinary wizardry to the delight of the children who have been taught to distinguish between coq au vin, pot-au-feu and tinolang manok. The couple work online from home with occasional sorties to NYC and the west coast as fintech for Philippine conglomerates where the time difference between Baltimore and Manila deprives them of much needed sleep.

Lolo the chauffeur