entirely.
‘Thank you for your concern, Munchkin,’ I reply sarcastically, shifting my hands across onto the top of the dishwasher, and landing on a cheese grater, which makes parmesan of my hand. I eventually pull up my knees and by some miracle end up in the kitchen sink, rather than with a cracked skull.
I climb out and examine my shredded hands as I hear voices outside. I open the window fully, only to discover Grandma outside, chatting to Gemma and Mum.
‘Grandma had just been for a walk,’ Mum announces cheerfully. ‘She’d locked up. That was why we couldn’t get in.’
Grandma narrows her eyes and looks at me. ‘You don’t want to go in that way, Danny. You might end up hurting yourself.’
I defy anyone in the world to tell me they have a better grandparent than Flossie Blackwood. My grandma rocks for reasons that go beyond the usual qualities of unconditional love, patience and wisdom. She is as fearless as she is energetic, as cynical as she is a boundless optimist. And she’s always had the ability to make me laugh – something that was the case when I was ten and which still applies now I’m nearly thirty.
She met my grandad, Tom, in the village shop where she worked in Buxton shortly after the war. He’d gone in to buy some potatoes, a story to which she adds every time: ‘Our eyes met over the King Edwards.’ She adored him until the day he died, sixteen years ago. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever stopped adoring him.
‘Can you not stop for a cup of tea?’ she asks, now we’re all assembled in her kitchen.
‘We’ll have to be quick,’ I reply. ‘We’ve got a mountain of stuff to drive over.’
Her creased hands reach out for the kettle and she walks with it to the sink. Her movements seem slower than even six weeks ago, when I was last here. She is eighty this year, I suppose, although that still seems impossible to believe.
It was Grandma who introduced me to one of my passions – open water swimming – and, although she mainly sticks to swimming pools these days, she still loves the water as much as when she was a young woman.
Unlike Mum, who’s on the skinny side, Grandma is a solid-looking woman, whose life revolves around simple pleasures: the great outdoors, church, good food (and Rioja) and her iPad, on which she plays Boggle obsessively.
‘Where’s all your stuff going?’ she asks.
‘There’s plenty of room in the garage,’ Mum says, ‘and they can always unpack some of it. If they choose. You never know, they might like it here so much they want to stay for good.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ Grandma says, winking at me. ‘Anyway, I’m not convinced there is a lot of room. I was in there this morning looking for some varnish and it was a complete tip.’
‘What did you want varnish for?’ Mum asks.
‘Your father’s sweetheart bench is starting to look weather-beaten. I was going to give it a touch up.’
‘I’ll do that for you, Grandma,’ I offer. ‘You just need to ask, you know. It’s no problem.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of putting a bit of varnish on a bench, Danny. But on this occasion,’ she continues, ‘I’ll think about letting you do it.’
‘Thank you,’ I laugh.
‘That’s what they call reverse psychology,’ she grins. ‘Though I am giving in for a reason.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’m getting rid of the bench. Giving it away.’
I find it hard to hide my disbelief. ‘But why? Grandad made that for you. I thought it was one of the most precious things you own.’
‘It is. Which is why I’m giving it to you and Gemma. It’s going to be my housewarming present when you move into your new love shack.’
I am momentarily lost for words. ‘Grandma, we couldn’t accept it.’
‘But you must,’ she insists. ‘Your grandad would’ve wanted it. I want it. It was meant for lovebirds, not old ladies.’
‘Flossie, this is so kind of you,’ Gemma pipes up. ‘I don’t know what to say. The bench is
‘Thank you for your concern, Munchkin,’ I reply sarcastically, shifting my hands across onto the top of the dishwasher, and landing on a cheese grater, which makes parmesan of my hand. I eventually pull up my knees and by some miracle end up in the kitchen sink, rather than with a cracked skull.
I climb out and examine my shredded hands as I hear voices outside. I open the window fully, only to discover Grandma outside, chatting to Gemma and Mum.
‘Grandma had just been for a walk,’ Mum announces cheerfully. ‘She’d locked up. That was why we couldn’t get in.’
Grandma narrows her eyes and looks at me. ‘You don’t want to go in that way, Danny. You might end up hurting yourself.’
I defy anyone in the world to tell me they have a better grandparent than Flossie Blackwood. My grandma rocks for reasons that go beyond the usual qualities of unconditional love, patience and wisdom. She is as fearless as she is energetic, as cynical as she is a boundless optimist. And she’s always had the ability to make me laugh – something that was the case when I was ten and which still applies now I’m nearly thirty.
She met my grandad, Tom, in the village shop where she worked in Buxton shortly after the war. He’d gone in to buy some potatoes, a story to which she adds every time: ‘Our eyes met over the King Edwards.’ She adored him until the day he died, sixteen years ago. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever stopped adoring him.
‘Can you not stop for a cup of tea?’ she asks, now we’re all assembled in her kitchen.
‘We’ll have to be quick,’ I reply. ‘We’ve got a mountain of stuff to drive over.’
Her creased hands reach out for the kettle and she walks with it to the sink. Her movements seem slower than even six weeks ago, when I was last here. She is eighty this year, I suppose, although that still seems impossible to believe.
It was Grandma who introduced me to one of my passions – open water swimming – and, although she mainly sticks to swimming pools these days, she still loves the water as much as when she was a young woman.
Unlike Mum, who’s on the skinny side, Grandma is a solid-looking woman, whose life revolves around simple pleasures: the great outdoors, church, good food (and Rioja) and her iPad, on which she plays Boggle obsessively.
‘Where’s all your stuff going?’ she asks.
‘There’s plenty of room in the garage,’ Mum says, ‘and they can always unpack some of it. If they choose. You never know, they might like it here so much they want to stay for good.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ Grandma says, winking at me. ‘Anyway, I’m not convinced there is a lot of room. I was in there this morning looking for some varnish and it was a complete tip.’
‘What did you want varnish for?’ Mum asks.
‘Your father’s sweetheart bench is starting to look weather-beaten. I was going to give it a touch up.’
‘I’ll do that for you, Grandma,’ I offer. ‘You just need to ask, you know. It’s no problem.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of putting a bit of varnish on a bench, Danny. But on this occasion,’ she continues, ‘I’ll think about letting you do it.’
‘Thank you,’ I laugh.
‘That’s what they call reverse psychology,’ she grins. ‘Though I am giving in for a reason.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’m getting rid of the bench. Giving it away.’
I find it hard to hide my disbelief. ‘But why? Grandad made that for you. I thought it was one of the most precious things you own.’
‘It is. Which is why I’m giving it to you and Gemma. It’s going to be my housewarming present when you move into your new love shack.’
I am momentarily lost for words. ‘Grandma, we couldn’t accept it.’
‘But you must,’ she insists. ‘Your grandad would’ve wanted it. I want it. It was meant for lovebirds, not old ladies.’
‘Flossie, this is so kind of you,’ Gemma pipes up. ‘I don’t know what to say. The bench is
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