I WAS shocked to read that research by the Equality and Human Rights Commission suggests a third of families rely on grandparents for childcare. Shocked, that is, that it isn’t more.

Virtually every working mother I know – myself included – relies on parents to help look after her children, for at least some of the time. There are several good reasons for this, top of which is that to put two under-fives into full-time childcare costs significantly more than the average mortgage.

When I tell my single or newly-married friends that nursery costs more than £40 per child – per day – they think I’m either delusional, abysmal at maths, or that the establishment I’ve chosen serves smoked salmon and caviar blinis for lunch.

The reality is that this is what a normal – though admittedly good – nursery costs. And here up north we should count ourselves lucky: a friend relocated to the South recently and pays £65 a day for the privilege.

This often prompts the question: is it really worth going to work? (Though only by those who don’t spend all week chasing a toddler with an unquenchable desire to scale furniture like the north face of the Matterhorn).

There’s no doubt that, without Grandma and Granddad’s services, the answer would be less clear-cut.

We conveniently convince ourselves, of course, that they wouldn’t have it any other way – that the experience is all part of the fulfilling, life-affirming nature of grandparenthood. Though it strikes me as I write that I’ve never directly checked this with my parents. I’m not stupid.

I can say with absolute confidence, however, that as far as the children are concerned, being looked after by them is a categorically Good Thing.

“Grandma days” – as Thursdays are known in our house – involve none of the tears or trauma of arriving at nursery in the morning. Au contraire, my nineteen-month-old dives into the outstretched arms of his grandmother as if he’s escaping a house fire.

The day that ensues is a weekly version of Christmas – involving gifts, insane volumes of food and a positively riotous approach to play time.

This was brought into sharp focus on a recent visit to the Yellow Sub in Liverpool – an indoor play centre, in case you’re uninitiated.

I attempted to accompany my youngest son to the baby section, naively believing that he would be satisfied with a couple of Velcro building blocks and a miniature slide. It didn’t go down well.

“Oh, he’s grown out of that,” my father announced, scooping him up and wiping away the tears.

I watched, wide-eyed, as my Dad – who is the wrong side of thirty (by several decades) – followed my son on his hands and knees, through tunnels, up padded stairways and across rope bridges, before completing the assault course in spectacular fashion: by whizzing down a thirty-foot slide with my son on his lap.

Which brings me to the other thing that’s good about grandparents. They have no shame.