What a coincidence - chores set for my son matched mine

A couple of weeks ago, when collecting my young son from his trial at Scouts, I was beckoned forward to speak to one of the pack leaders.
It seemed that all Cubs wishing to achieve their Silver Award needed to set themselves a personal challenge for the duration of a week, provide a record of them fulfilling it, and utilise it as evidence in their application for the accolade.
The challenge should comprise a task out of the ordinary, not something they should normally expect to achieve - tidying their bedroom, for instance, should not count (my son and I caught each other's eye at this point; clearly, the state of his room had not been put under scrutiny).
Examples were suggested by the leader: learning to play an instrument; going on a long hike; taking a dog on a lengthy walk - none appealed to my son. We were struggling to identify a suitable discipline, but then it came to me: he could lend a hand to his grandfather, completing any chores that would ease that elderly gentleman's life.
Thus, the following day I furnished my son with a trowel, a broom, and a set of instructions as to how to remove the moss from the paving tiles remaining in the patch my dad and I had been tackling. My son applied himself with greater diligence than enthusiasm, and did a fair job, depositing a small heap of mossy fingers in a corner of the garden. I snapped his photo, and mentally ticked off Day 1. Five days left to fill.
The second day dawned bright and fair, and I escorted my son across the road to perform some laundering duties - clothes, not money, lest you be concerned for the state of his mortal soul. I discovered multiple garments hanging dry on the clothes horse, and instructed my son to fetch and fold them, before directing him to various cupboards and wardrobes for distribution.
That done, he turned his attention to the wet clothes sitting in the machine from a morning wash cycle. He filled a basket with the load, carried it to the drying room, and hung out the contents, pegging up handkerchiefs and suspending shirts from hangers in the process. I caught his efforts on camera, and Day 2 was complete.
The following day, it was pre-bin day. I asked my son to collect the wheelie bin and hoist it up the flight of steps at the back of the house - no mean feat, as he is not much taller than the apparatus in question - to await the refuse lorry on the morrow. I then requested that he empty my dad's waste paper basket into the requisite blue plastic sack and transport it up the steps, followed in turn by both black recycling boxes and the food bin. Photo taken; Day 3 done.
When the fourth day arrived, I invited my son to re-make my father's bed. He stripped off the pillowcases, sheet, and duvet cover, and replaced each from a fresh stack taken from the airing cupboard. Stretching the fitted balcony sheet over the deep divan was a challenge, but he managed pretty well, then wrestled clean pillowcases over the plump pillows.
The duvet cover - twice the size of any he had handled previously - proved a tricky customer, but he was relieved at least to note the absence of buttons and the presence of less fiddly press studs. It took a few attempts to fill it, but each corner was safely in place at last; a few quick shakes, a little smoothing, and a turned-over corner, and the bed was ready. He smiled at the birdy: Day 4 was finished.
On Day 5, I was struggling to think of how to proceed. In the end, it was my dad who gave me inspiration: he had been busy plucking apples from the bountiful tree in the back garden, and had a fine crop stored in the shed. Although sad that I hadn't thought to engage my son's assistance with the harvest, I decided he could help with the sorting. I led him to the shed, where he transferred the apples into a large brown paper bag, and then lugged them homeward; not a time-consuming pursuit, but a strain on the arms - I think he considered it a worthy undertaking. Day 5 ticked off.
On the final day, I thought it might be nice if my son carried his grandad's supper over to him, and then kept him company over the meal with his own dinner. He duly did so, posing for a picture en route and again with my dad in situ, and they spent a pleasant hour or so in each other's company, eating, chatting, and watching television. He returned with his head full of the scandals featured in the soaps, but it was a small price to pay for the benefit each had gained.
Before his Scouts session the next day, I emailed a description of his achievements, complete with photographic evidence, to his leader, and congratulated him on a job well done. I think he had rather enjoyed himself, and I cherished the fond hope that life was made a little easier for my dad for a while. On reflection, though, I rather abashedly realise that most of those tasks were ones I would have undertaken; I think I may actually have made life a little easier for myself instead. Ah, well; surely, as far as the personal challenge goes, it's the thought that counts.