Let’s do this together
The Mothership landed at the weekend and, as always, came bearing homegrown gifts and a food parcel. Nana always likes to bring a shopping bag of self-denying health foods as if she’s visiting an inpatient at a sanatorium.
My Scottish mum’s proud of her spartan tastes and that she made me and my brother eat porridge made from salt and water when we were kids.
“None of that milk and sugar nonsense,” she laughs now, but it was like eating wallpaper paste at the time.
“I’m not in hospital, mum,” I said, trying not to sound too ungrateful. “You don’t need to keep me regular with organic fruit.”
You have to admire how my mother has never made any concession to the normal tastes of a teenager.
“Thank you for the salt-free naked crisps, raw cashews and vegan plain chocolate, mum, but you do know your granddaughter prefers Frazzles and Greggs’ steak bakes?”
We refer to mum’s healthy snack parcels as “Nanna From Heaven” ever since she sent TDL The Real Easter Egg made from frugal-tasting chocolate and an illustrated story of Christ.
“It tastes like cardboard,” moaned the very unrepentant teenager at the time.
Mum had also brought three mini orange calendulas she’d grown from seed for me to plant in my small back garden, which was very thoughtful since the backyard is looking a bit bare after the frosts laid waste to all my geraniums.
Less Percy Thrower and more Genghis Khan, Nana is also a bit of a dictator in the garden.
Aunty Dot got into trouble for digging the holes for the baby flowers too deep, and I got a telling off for using the wrong kind of watering can.
“It’s far too big, it’ll be like Biblical floods washing the plants away,” she said testily with customary overstatement. Now I know where I get it from.
But if she’s sparing with the sugar and patience, mum’s always very generous with the cash.
I noticed The Dark Lord was hanging around longer than usual, politely laughing at Nana and Aunty Dot’s jokes, before they handed over a bunch of notes, and then she practically left tyre marks disappearing up the stairs saying she had chores to do.
“Rude,” I whispered in her ear as she legged it. But I kind of understand – there’s only so many “when I was young and made to eat gruel” type stories a modern teenager can stand. But if this is what it takes to get TDL to suddenly deal with the overflowing waste paper bin situation in her room, I should get Nana around more often…
Email me at siobhan.mcnally@mirror.co.uk or write to Community Corner, PO Box 791, Winchester SO23 3RP.
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