I had the pleasure of visiting a friend's grandparents a few weeks ago, and when I entered their house I thought, isn't it funny how similar Nanna houses are?
For one, there is the Nanna smell, composed of talc (with a base of old-fashioned roses or lavender), polished wood, a hint of shag carpet, and fruit cake (depending on the time of day).
Sometimes it is hard to narrow down the main components of the Nanna smell if a Grandad is resident as well. The Old Spice throws you off a bit.
Then there are the doilies. Large and small, woven from linen or lace or cotton yarn, they immediately antiquate anything they come into contact with. Even the DVD player ends up looking like something you have to start up with a crank handle.
Most side tables will have a cut glass bowl on them (resting on a doily). These bowls will usually be filled with pot pourri, but if you are lucky, they will have Minties in them instead.
The shelves will be crowded with photographs, some in fascinating black and white, and others in the faded colours of the 70s and 80s. There will be graduation or school portraits of the grandchildren, and many, many knick-knacks, some of them gifts from the aforementioned grandchildren. These may include one or more of the following: china animals (made in China), glass animals (also made in China), clay paperweights, seashells, seashells glued together into seashell people, pasta jewellery, troll dolls, collectible teapots, Matchbox cars, souvenir matchboxes, and commemorative teaspoons. They will never be given away or thrown out, not even when the grandchildren grow up and beg Nanna to bin their shame.
I do realise that what I am describing here is an idealised portrait of a Nanna, an Über Nanna, if you will, ruling benevolently over a timeless, unchanging haven of fairy cakes and real cream. But really, Nannas are as human as the rest of us. Some are nice, some are indifferent, some can be disturbingly alluring (thanks for the nightmares, plastic surgery), and some can be downright mean.
I have a feeling I'll become one of the mean ones. (This is if Nature allows me to procreate. I'm reckon I'm already on her blacklist.) I just don't think I'll be able to radiate the right amount of admiration when a three-year-old shows me a portrait drawn with crayon and spit.
"I'm going to be honest with you here, Jayden-Tyler. That's a pretty rubbish effort," I will say, whereupon young JT will run away crying and refuse to let me kiss him goodbye. This will probably work out in his favour, since I plan to have quite a bit of chin stubble by then.
And a few years later ...
"Oh, wow," teenage JT will say when he (reluctantly) visits. "An LCD TV! I saw one on Antiques Roadshow once! And what's this?"
"It's a remote control."
"Why don't you just get cortical implants like everyone else?"
"Because they're evil. I might as well tattoo '666' on my forehead."
"Ooh! You're so old-fashioned, Nanna! Besides, we always thought you were ev-, um, coughcoughmumblenothing ..."
"We'll see who has the last laugh when the Rapture comes and you're left here with the Whore of Babylon*, young man."**
* As a child, I couldn't understand why this poor lady from Babylon was so vilified. I mean, she rode a seven-headed dragon! How cool was that? (Allegories were a little beyond my grasp back then.)
** Eh, who am I kidding? Chances are Mean Nanna won't be going anywhere.