Like my books, I’m genre-defying. Well, I think so anyway. Let’s look at “grannies”. This subject came up in a FB conversation the other day and I was rather shocked to find that I’m supposed to be disapproving and strict.
It is apparently Grandfathers’ role to be naughty and play rough-stuff. Oh dear. Another stereo-type into which I don’t fit but then I’m not a real Granny. This doesn’t mean I don’t take the job seriously, I mean I never had kids so the only grandchildren I have are “borrowed” from my husband’s offspring. They don’t seem to mind.
When they came to stay for the first time in my tenure as “Mutant Teenage Ninja Grandma” (their invention, not mine) I was unaware of the requirement to wear sensible clothes, stout shoes and behave properly. It seemed normal, therefore, to help rig up a commando slide from the old walnut tree in the huge garden. When a test pilot was needed for it, Grandpa was out of the question being far too heavy. Granny was volunteered for the post and willingly shinned up to give it a go. Good job I did because we hadn’t tightened the rope nearly enough and on coming in to land I ploughed two furrows in the veg patch with my knees.
Adjustments duly made, the grandchildren loved that slide all through their stay. That was just before they took themselves off to buy me a birthday present and decided that a baby pig was ideal. No, it wouldn’t be the soap-and-perfume set marketed for most Grannies but they were absolutely right. I would have loved a piglet. The only person against it was Grandpa. We all cried and sulked all the way home in the car – no piggie for Granny. Boo!
It was those kids who first christened me “Hells Granny” when our eldest grandson donated his Honda to me. Not only did I get a lot of fun out of whizzing around on my bike, they rather enjoyed telling their mates that their Nan was a biker.