Craic On

“Oh Granny, What are you wearing?” said a horrified looking Grand as I showed off my beach attire. I said nothing when he elected to come to my Birthday lunch in a multicoloured tutu, rugby shirt and jeans. He might not approve of my sense of style but I admire his nerve in mixing his. He’s a boy who knows his own mind and what he likes, well, he likes. We took a photo of ourselves before we sat down to eat. He had his arm around me in a loving embrace. In the picture, I looked adoringly at him. He had a bit of a smirk on his cherubic face. I’ve subsequently discovered that his little hand was not squeezing me in an act of unbridled affection, but he was busy pebble dashing my party clothes in giant cuscus and a really good set of oily smears that even the dry cleaner sucked in her breath at. When the post party pictures circulated, I only had eyes for the Grand. He was on form and looking pretty pleased with himself. As I sat in bed drinking my fourth litre of water of the day and feeling post chemo sorry