I’ve always had a vivid imagination but at the age of 35 with a one year old and a fairly sensible career, I wonder if it’s time perhaps that I reined in my galloping grey matter. The other week on my way to the doctors surgery, as the car sped over the evenly spaced speed bumps, I realised I was pretending to ride a show jumping horse, slightly rising up in the saddle over each jump. ‘Is this normal?’ I asked myself, as I cleared the fifth jump. It is the same active imagination that compels me to commit to memory the telephone numbers of my nearest and dearest. I rarely use my address book, preferring to ‘free dial’ from memory, as in my head there are no less than twenty five phone numbers. And if you were to ask me why, I would tell you that ‘clearly’ when Armageddon hits and my phone gets melted by the apocalyptic Daleks, I will be able to make my way to a working phone box and rally my loved ones along to my apocalyptic hideaway (a bivouac in the Welsh hills). There are a few randoms that have made their way into ‘the salvation twenty five’ by default over the years (a couple of ex boyfriends and Hitesh, my IT support guy) but I have justified this by surmising that Hitesh will come in handy for hacking into the Dalek’s security network and the exes can be sacrificed for food or weapons.
As the countdown to Christmas begins, Createhumanstayhuman caught up with coiffed, cravat sporting Geraint Anderson (aka Cityboy) on a shoot for Italian Vogue, being liberally spritzed with hairspray by an effete looking Italian trendy. Rather amusingly the notorious Cityboy pointed out that his last encounter with a can of hairspray was whilst blow-torching ants at school. However through the cloud of Elnette and between shots we did manage to extract Geraint’s top ten stress busters for those about to embark on the hair raising hullabaloo of becoming a new Dad.
I wonder if I’m alone in thinking that when my baby was born my mother really didn’t suit the title of ‘granny’. My own granny, who was extremely dear to me, fitted the bill completely. She could knit an entire arran jumper without peeling her eyes away from Corrie, made legendary mince pies, only ever drank tea in a cup and saucer, always smelt of ‘Arpege’, was definitely partial to the odd glass of sherry and always wore pearls whilst doing the gardening. My granny was the embodiment of the word ‘granny’. If there were ‘granny championships’, she would have topped the league tables.
My mum on the other hand doesn’t suit the title at all. She wears converse, uses Facebook, advises me on which white wines to drink, goes jogging most days, likes to boogie sometimes after a dinner and most definitely wouldn’t know which end of a knitting needle was which. I feel she defines a new breed of ‘granny’. It is a breed that falls somewhere in between a mummy and a granny – a ‘grummy’ if you will.