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Daisy was knitting me a present when I arrived this afternoon.   Can you believe she worries about me leaving fingerprints? (“Jail is full of such nasty people, pet – you don’t want to go there…”)  

(Naturally I haven’t the heart to tell her Py made me take care of that concern myself about a century ago when the police started keeping records.   You see, he went through this ‘can’t beat ’em, join ’em’ stint as this French criminal-turned-cop called Vidocq a hundred years before that and is still into the whole forensics thing – just fucking loves CSI.   But that’s another story…)


“Look, old man!”   Daisy waved one completed glove at me gleefully, and nothing would bloody satisfy her but for me to wear it Michael Jackson-style while she worked on the other.

I went unthinkingly to put my feet up on the dainty doily-swathed coffee table, and turned it into a theatrical leg-crossing.

“What’s been happening, Daisy?”

She went on knitting like a shaman rattling bones and chattering almost as fast.

“Oh, just the usual.   Attended a couple of funerals – that I didn’t cause, thank you very much!   I saw that look…   No – two old ladies from my bingo group, poor old dears – not worth a nibble.   But the funerals were just lovely – organised three for myself over the years, and I do just love attending them.   All that nice weeping, and talk about how good I look for my age, and what a surprise it was when I was always so healthy; and someone gives a very sweet eulogy, and the flowers are always pretty…   Such a nice afternoon’s entertainment.   I would never miss my own funeral, though it’s getting a bit trickier with hats and veils going out of style, you know?   You’ve have to come to the next one, though I’ve got a while here yet – the lawn bowls club are only a little suspicious at the moment that I’m so spry for my age.”

From habit, she took a breath – and continued.

“Honestly, Jonathon – I do not know how you manage.   You barely have three or four years before you’ve outgrown your life and have to move on, don’t you?   Young people are meant to age so fast, and it’s all so inconvenient.   And then you have all kinds of restrictions don’t you, poor pet? – truancy rules and curfews, and places you can’t go into and things you can’t buy, and all that ‘no drinking, voting, driving’ nonsense too?   I know I’ve only been doing this about half as long as you, but it’s all certainly easier for me.   No-one notices little old ladies so very much, of course, and we can all look rather alike, and people are generally nice because you look helpless, and if they’re not – well.   That’s easily fixed, isn’t it?   And no-one ever thinks we’d do anything naughty.   So we get away with everything we want to, of course – just because we’re old.”

I was having an Arsenic and Old Lace flashback as Daisy laid down her knitting, and looked at me very seriously.

“You should have waited, old man.   Waited till my age.   Only young people imagine it’s worth being young forever.   Silly young things.”

She shook her head indulgently, tucked her knitting away into the crocheted bag with the wooden handles, and eased herself out of her lavender armchair.

“Now – how would you like a nice drink?   I have some lovely fresh stuff, and I can just warm it up for you.   So obliging of a charity collector to pop in yesterday, wasn’t it?   Must just give Dwayne a call to come and dispose of the body for me – such a blessing, that boy…”

(Wait.   Who?)

Daisy puts her head around the kitchen door to say, reassuringly:

“Don’t worry, old man.   I finished his new gloves last week, so you won’t have to wait for yours.”

Well.   That’s a relief.





  1. Who the?! HAHA.. Seems the dotty ol’ Daisy has been making a collection of friends =)

  2. You should introduce her to Py. I’d love to see that conversation.

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