How to earn Brownie Points
Grandad January 3rd, 2010
Herself ran out of fags a couple of days ago.
She had been nagging me unmercifully to get her some more, but I didn’t fancy going out in the cold and the snow, so I told her the roads were too dangerous. She suggested that I walk, but I told her I wasn’t going to slip and break my neck for anyone.
Herself is a terrible sight to behold when she runs out of smokes. If possible, she gets even more cantankerous and nothing is safe around the house. The guinea pigs built mounds of hay and hid for the duration, and Sandy only came out when she was sure the coast was clear. After a bout of abstinence I usually have to restock on crockery too.
She started by threatening me, but the baseball bat put a stop to that. Then the pleading started, with promises to behave herself and do all sorts of favours if I would only nip down and buy a packet of fags.
Yesterday, she really got on my nerves, and spent the morning pleading with me, promising never to nag again and that she would never ever mention my indiscretions again. It was pathetic. As it happened, I had run out of pipe tobacco, so I told her I would go down to the village… just for her.
The village was nice and quiet when I went down. Our lane was pretty slippery but the road was grand. I stocked up on tobacco and bought a couple of packs of fags, and contemplated going for a coffee. But there again, sitting outside in the freezing cold supping coffee isn’t really my cup of tea, so I decided to go back home.
The only person I met [apart from the girl in the shop] was Doc. He yelled his usual “How are ya, Grandad?” and as usual, I ignored him. I knew the mean old scroat would only bill me for a consultation if I replied.
I gave Herself her fags when I got back and she lit up with a trembling hand. Soon the house rang with the sound of her cough, and the animals knew the coast was clear. She has a lovely sweet cough – a bit like someone trying to start a faulty chain-saw.
“Where the roads bad?” says she, between hacks.
“Terrible,” says I. “Just take a look at the lane. I had to abandon the car half way, and walk.”
“There was no need to go to that trouble,” says she, shooting a perfectly aimed glob of phlegm into the fire.
“Ah, there was,” says I. “I knew you needed a smoke and I hate to see you suffer.”
“You’re a pet,” says she, as she lit up the next one.
I know.
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