Granny Lost The Plot

I’m running a competition.

The prize for the winning entry will make the recent lotto win pale into comparison.

I want you to write to me and in less than 500 words, tell me who you would least like to have as a Mother-in-Law, and why.

For instance, my nightmare would be Kim and Aggie from the programme “Do you want your auld lobby washed down” or whatever it’s called.

Aggie would follow me around with a bottle of vinegar, bicarbonate of soda and Coke for the loo. She’s a mighty big woman and I’m only little, so a puck in the jaw from Aggie would send me spinning into the middle of next week.

Get the drift?

Hop to it, girls…

I’m pleased to announce that the driving lessons are going well.

In fact somebody in the village complimented me only yesterday.

They left a note on the windscreen.

It said “Parking Fine”.

That’s nice.

That bloody Animal.

I could have sworn that the sitting room carpet was a brownish colour. After a run over with The Animal, up came a lovely pale green colour. It really does do the job on dog hairs.

My bone of contention is that although the diagram shows three options height’s wise - One for giants, a middle height and a height for dwarves, we couldn’t get it to lock in the middle one.

After a round of the house using the dwarf position, I done me back in (as Bertie would say).

I’m in agony.

Expect no prose for a very long time.

By the by, when did a household appliance become a suitable gift for a lady?

Help me here please.

Stick your Dyson, Grandad

All young men are portrayed by the media in a bad light.

I was stood by the Hole-in-the-wall machine in town yesterday, totally flustered and bewildered with this technology phenomena.

A young man stopped and offered to help. He was a lovely boy with a gansey that had a hood. Very sensible in this weather! I gave him my card and whispered my secret number in his ear. He completed the transaction.

Then he offered to clean my card for me, which was very nice of him. He had a little gadget in his pocket which he said cleaned the little black strip thing.

He was painfully shy and kept his head down, so I couldn’t see his face. He dissappeared into the crowd before I could thank him.

Such a nice lad.

I wish I could repay him somehow.

I am turning sixty.

I’ve got pains even where I don’t have windows.

Yet I don’t know what money laundering is about.

Would it be like when I’ve put on awash and dry cycle, packed full, and I’m sorting the laundry and I find a 20 Euro note [or, if I'm lucky, a 50 Euro note] in Grandad’s jeans pocket?

He’s getting forgetful, so it happens a lot. Bless!

If I decide to keep it, is that money laundering?

Can they lock me up for it?