Burr, Bread , Shoog
Her shopping lists are always the same. There used to be Kit-e-Kat too, but not since the last cat died.
So I just got her the bread, butter and sugar, plus a packet of chocolate biscuits to keep me going until after work.
She insists on keeping her biscuits in the same tin as her fruit cake, so the cake makes the biscuits go soft.
I’ve told her to use two different tins, and I’ve even shown her an article about how to keep biscuits fresh, but she won’t listen.
She always said to me when I was a child,
“you’ll learn the hard way”
and I reckon it’s my turn to start saying that to her now.
But she’d have an answer, and that would annoy me even more, so I generally take my own biscuits if I’m likely to be there for a cup of tea.
When she opens the front door she stares at me, glares at the carrier bag, sniffs, pushes her bifocals up to the top of her nose and says,
“What’s wrong with the Co-op then?”
She takes the shopping, turns her back on me and stomps inside, leaving me on the doorstep wishing I had a lovely little old gran with a grey bun who sits on the settee quietly knitting and being grateful for all the help she gets from her family.
I’m still standing there musing on the family we’re dealt, when I see her in the murky hallway.
She blocks off the light from the kitchen window behind her like a silhouette of Fungus the Bogeyman.
“Come in if you’re coming,” she says, “kettle’s on.”
