‘Tis the season for blow-dried grannies
With Christmas just around the corner, the annual invasion of the grannies is now well underway. I see them all over the community, creaking out of airport taxis with their Duty Free gin, their sensible travel shoes and their ‘oliday blow-dries.
Every day, I see them fiddling with their bifocal sunglasses and blinking like badgers in the bright Gulf sunlight as they try desperately to keep up with the frenetic pace of their daughters’ lives. I mean, spare a thought for them: The blow-dried grannies in their easy-care slacks have, after all, been plucked from a life of mince pies and sherry under a blanket in front of the telly and dropped headfirst into a blur of champagne brunches, five-star beach clubs, 100-kilometre school runs, Polo Club lunches and visits to malls bigger than the quaint villages in which they live.
It’s no wonder they look confused.
But, as I watch the grannies pat their puffy hair and drop off the littuns at school and nursery with a wiggle of their wonky hips, I always feel a twinge of jealousy because they remind me of my own mum – DD and DS’s super gran – whom we’d dearly like to be here but who doesn’t “do” winter in Dubai because she doesn’t like to leave her house unattended in the depths of a British winter for fear that all sorts of nasty things might happen to it.
Fair point, I guess. But I still wish she was here. Dodgy hip, blow-dried hair, easycare slacks ‘n’ all.