Madge

As me old granny used to say – that's the alcoholic one, on my dad's side – “Put your arm out so I can measure the length, yes, just like that.”

Her house always had a peculiar smell, now I recognise it as booze and fags and air that was stale.

Sadly, she died youngish, sixty nine, too much booze and heart break. My grandfather died young and left her penniless and alone, before I was born, before I was even thought of. She smoked menthol cigarettes and always had a brandy on the go. She could play backgammon like a shark, she'd encourage me to bet. 

“It makes life more interesting,” she’d say. “You wait and see.”

She'd sneak me puffs on her cigarette when I was a kid, (no she didn’t, I just like to romanticise it that way) when mum and dad had gone to bed. She always wanted to know if there was a girl in my life. She'd want to know the details, but I knew how far I could go.

She used to knit me jumpers, “Boys need woollens to see them through life.” She’d laugh and pat me on the head. “You’ll understand when you are older and have to travel for love.”

She’d knit jumpers only in kid’s sizes, she’d knit them all day. There was speculation that the booze rendered adult sizes out of her abilities. (I didn't hear that until I was grown up, of course)

Or she’d spend the day at the pub, bringing cream cakes home for tea.

She loved me. I miss her. She’d look after us when mum and dad were out for the night.

I don’t remember if she used to drink when she used to babysit us? I don’t remember anything like that, but I would have been young, of course. But mum told me they couldn’t go into town shopping unless they stopped for a brandy on the way in and on the way home again. So, I don’t know how she would have got on for the evening babysitting without a drink.

I don’t think it would be acceptable to let a drunk babysit your kids now a days, we’re far too uptight to let that happen, but, it was a different time when we were being babysat as kids, and she was my father’s mother, after all, so I’m guessing it would have been more difficult to say no.

A Fine Mist of Rain Fell

I stepped out on to the street and pulled my gate shut. The air was cold, I shivered. I pulled my collar up around my neck as my body vibrated momentarily underneath, shivered. It was early, the full veil of the morning hadn't quite lifted. The light was grey, a fine mist of rain fell.

I had only taken a few steps when I heard, pad, pad, pad behind me. Then whoosh, a jogger whirled passed me. I stepped sideways and out of the way. I mean, he probably wasn't going so fast, maybe I was still on slow, no coffee yet, no heart starter to make my eyes fully open.

I heard him snort and pant, gasp in, exhale. I watched his legs, like springs, propel him past me. I watched his ankles flip up behind him and then push his feet to the ground, straightening as his shoes touched down on the bitumen. The backs of his wide-legged black shorts flapped with each step. The was a hint of his red jocks underneath hugging him tight. His arms swung rhythmically, matching his breaths.

His back was straight, his head was up, he pranced. he was  a fine specimen.

He flipped around the corner at the intersection and was gone. He was nowhere to be seen when I turned that same corner a few moments later.

The street was quiet again, except for my short, sharp breaths sounding in my ears. And the clop, clop, clop of my own feet. The morning air was cold on my face. I yawned. The inhale of breath was cold. I looked both ways on the street, and then I crossed over to the other side and continued my walk. A car drove past me on the street, otherwise it was early and it was only me making my way in the deserted street.