Sometimes it would be nice to live a normal life. To get up every morning, eat my breakfast and not have to give my grot covered Gran a kiss before I go to school. But my life has to be different. You see, my Gran, bless her, now sits in the corner of the room on Dad's favourite chair encased in a hardened shell of green grot of her own making.
"That was my favourite chair," says Dad wistfully every day when he comes back from work.
My mum, hands on hips with a scowl that would make Mike Tyson quake in his boots, would snap, "Do you mind, that's my mother under there!"
Dad would then disappear down to the shed mumbling under his breath.
Granny's been under the grot now for so long that I'd forgotten what she looked like, so mum stuck a photo on the grot to remind us all. Dad also drilled a hole in the grot so that we can feed her. Gran doesn't seem to mind, in fact she says she's enjoying spending time with the family.
Anyhow, how did this all happen I hear you ask? How did my gran, who'd just turned 69 and was the only pensioner ever to have climbed Everest with a zimmer frame, end up encased in a hardened shell of green grot? Well, actually, none of us really have a clue but this is what we patched together.
Granny Grubbymitts always came to our house for Sunday lunch. One Sunday, after polishing off a huge helping of potatoes, beef, Yorkshire pudding, peas and gravy (not to mention two helpings of apple pie and custard!), Granny Grubymitts left the table and parked herself on my dad's chair. Here she slipped into her afternoon doze as normal. Except this time a thin trail of grot began to dribble out of the corner of her mush. Unluckily, I was the first to see it.
"Mum, Dad!" I hollered. "Gran's grotting!"
Mum and Dad raced out of the kitchen, screeching to a halt in front of dad's favourite chair. They couldn't believe their eyes as they saw my Gran grotting on herself.
"Granny's sitting in my chair grotting!" cried Dad. "A green and horrid mess!"
Mum pointed to where the grot was dripping from the corner of Granny's cakehole. "It's slobbering out of her gob!" she exclaimed!
"And landing on her dress!" I concluded because it was.
Mum thought it best to attempt to wake my Gran up. Now, this isn't usually an easy thing to do. A brass band could walk through the living room and it wouldn't disturb my gran but, somehow, mum managed the impossible and Gran opened an eye.
"Mother, you seem to be grotting on yourself," Mum told my gran.
Gran smiled and replied, "Oh don't worry about that dear. Thank you for my meal." and with that she fell asleep again.
"It's dribbling all over her dress!" cried Dad. He clenched his hair with his hands, "and onto my favourite chair!"
"Well," said Mum, "what do you want me to do about it? At least it's not going on the carpet!"
Later that day, around tea time, Granny was up to her knees in grot. During Antiques Roadshow, Mum tried to wake her up but Gran was fast as a rock and all the while the grot kept dripping and dripping. By the time it was my bedtime it was up to her chest and still she hadn't woken up.
"We can't leave her like that, David!" Mum told Dad.
Dad shrugged, "What can we do?" he replied. "Our hands are tied."
The next day, mum and dad came downstairs to find Gran completely encased in a hardened shell of grot. Dad tapped on the grot and was suprised to hear my gran's voice from deep within.
"Hello dears," Gran said. "Any chance of some breakfast? I could murder a slice of toast."
Mum shrugged and disappeared into the kitchen to put the toaster on. Dad went down to his shed to fetch the drill.
So that's the story of how Granny Grubbymitts ended up encased in a shell of green grot. She's still sitting in the corner of the room on Dad's favourite chair but she seems happy enough. Sometimes Mab, our rabbit, sits on top of her and sometimes Dad shoos her away. Only sometimes though.