Polyester slacks, pearls and the blue rinse, that unique, but all so familiar grandmother smell. Of course, not forgetting the hearing aid that whines to all but the wearer.

Radio four loud and clear while the old clock ticks on the wall.
Floorboards creak as the chair rocks, humming to herself as the knitting grows.

Laughter lines, or worry lines, could even be both.
Some might say they’re the mark of life experiences. Lines that are earned like military stripes.
Lines, happy and sad, and all could tell many a story.

She sits on the bus looking tired and worn, a thousand thoughts and worries on her young and gullible mind. Older children squabble, while the younger child grizzles and whines.
“ All yours?” An inquisitive passer-by remarks, “no” she replies, “just looking after the Grandchildren.”

The sweet old lady at number 32, or is she; others beg to differ. Scared many an adult with her sharp tongue. Proud of her restraining orders and a regular on the anti-crime patrols.
Old and harmless the naive might say, the neighbours in the street know otherwise.

Book your visiting slot well in advance, Tuesdays a whist drive; Wednesdays bridge club and Thursdays too. Friday a lunch with a good friend Lance could do a little time on Saturday, but can’t be late for the weekly dinner & dance.

They say grown-ups know best, but who taught them? Well, Grandparents, of course, ask any of them, they’re always right about everything.

Sticks at dawn, let the battles commence, many a cursed word exchanged.
“ Now, now, ” says the care assistant, “you’re both old enough to know better!”

Grandmother’s glasses always needed and never put down, hanging on a chain around her neck. Thick ones, thin ones, dark ones, heavy ones and if you look carefully chic Dame Edna ones too.

“Is it real?” younger generations ask? “But it’s so wiry.” Grey, white, purple and blue, endless styles that never falter. Protected from the extremities by the pocket bonnet. Held in place by an abundance of pins, a Grandmothers hair never moves.

Three rows of four new cards, eyes are peeled, and the big thick marker pens poised for action. Bingo nights are serious competition. They sit with friends at tables; in silence while they wait for that one special number.

Beige button up coats, with a broach, proudly pinned on the collar. Leather slim-fitting gloves tightly grip the shopping trolley handle. Patent black shoes click the pavement with resilience.

Hearty steaming food on the table. Meat, Potato’s and two veg, or steamed suet pudding. Grandmother’s speciality will serve with either. Thick dark brown gravy coats the food and the tantalising aroma fills the air.


Hardworking and enthusiastic creative thinker and copywriter based in South Wales.
I enjoy taking complex problems and turning them into simple creative solutions.