Three strikes

Weekends are always the highlight of my week (aren’t they for everyone?) and this weekend Olly and I went to visit my Gran again.  We both love going to stay, and in light of recent events, it’s all the more important we do it as much as we can.  She is full of incredible stories, has a brilliant booming laugh (a consequence of deafness) and gives the best hugs.  We get on famously, but if I was ever naughty as a child (a regular occurrence) my golly would I know about it.  Being told off is never particularly pleasant, but when you’re being told off for having done something that you weren’t actually the culprit for, it’s even worse.  In a way, it’s a bit like Matilda shouting ‘fire’.  Because being naughty came quite naturally to me, I usually was the one to blame, but when it wasn’t my fault, no-one believed me.  This happened with my Gran once and I was absolutely furious.

Luckily I have grown out of my naughty streak (mostly), but that doesn’t mean I don’t do things wrong completely unintentionally.  And recently, I appear to have reached three strikes with Gran.

Strike #1

When we stayed with her a couple of weeks ago, we cooked a big roast chicken dinner on the Sunday.  I did most of the cooking and Olly did all the clearing up afterwards.  There we were feeling like two little proud peas in our domestic pod, glad that Gran had had a good meal without having to worry about anything.  To my HORROR, I discovered when my mother went to visit last weekend that we had completely forgotten about the chicken carcass which was left in the oven after carving!  How we had quite managed this I have no idea, but they got rather a potent surprise.  To use Gran’s words, ‘it ponged’.  I bet it did.

Strike #2

I don’t think this really deserves a strike, but Gran seems to think otherwise.  She’s deaf, so if we watch TV together we have the subtitles on.  This is fine, but I find that rather than ignoring them and listening to the words, I just read from the screen.  So when she went up to bed last night, I switched the subtitles off.  And forgot to turn them back on again.  So when Gran came down to watch the news in the early hours of this morning she was not best pleased!

Strike #3

This is actually quite bad.  Neither Olly and I are tea or coffee drinkers (I know, what on earth is wrong with us?) but I like to think that after three years of working in a tea room when I was in school that I can make a decent cup of either.  So earlier, when Gran asked for a cup of coffee, I happily obliged.  My first mistake was that I almost used the wrong coffee – the type that can only be done in a cafetiere – but she soon steered me on the right track.  So, instant coffee, water, milk, and a spoonful of sugar from the little bowl on the kitchen worktop.  Not so hard.  I gave it to Gran and she said it looked perfect.  She then explained how Rosemary had been round during the week and had accidentally put salt in her coffee instead of sugar…  Alarm bells started ringing.  Was I sure I used sugar?  Before I could stop her she took a sip, and promptly spat it out.  I had not used sugar.  I too, had put salt in the poor dear’s coffee.

It seems I have some making up to do!  It’s a wonder she didn’t put me on the naughty step.


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