My Grandmother is a puffer.
Maybe I should extrapolate on that?
Nah. That’ll do. ‘My Grandmother is a puffer.’ It’ll keep you guessing:
She knocks back the odd spliff? She’s actually a big bomber jacket masquerading as a Grandmother? At night she morphs into the masked crusader; Blowfish Grannie!?
Okay, this feels really blasphemous now.
What I mean is that my Grandmother sighs a lot… and groans… sighs and groans… like, all the time. I went to visit her today and I massaged her feet and she huffed and puffed all the way through it. I just assumed that she really liked it. (I am a professional after-all, let’s not forget that people.) But then I got lunch ready and she huffed and puffed all the way through that. No problem, eating is a big deal for some people. Then I did the dishes and she sat at the table and talked to me and yes, you guessed it, she huffed and puffed all the way through that. I looked at her after one particularly loud huff and she smiled at me and said:
“I know I huff and puff a lot dear, it’s just so I can hear that I’m still alive.”
God love her.