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Yorkshire Pud at Granny's Pad

I don't want to be a fucking granny; I just want to be a granny fucking. Why not? If you can still give head when all about are losing hairs and blaming it on you ... then you're doing really bloody well, old dear.

Sunday lunch for fifteen today; it didn't faze me. Five or fifteen, same old lame old shit, but today ...

... today I forgot to make the sodding Yorkshire pudding.

I forgot the Yorkshire pudding. Does it signify? Does it sink into your tiny brain? I was ready. The lord and master was still in bed, hoover-dodging, so I rushed to pick up venomous number five from her sleep-over. Sleep-over? Joke. Stay awake all night and paint each others' toenails while watching naughty, forbidden Scary Movie Six and talking about boys, bras and Brazilians. Spitting in the back of the Fiat she was, angry, pale, exhausted, her and her inarticulate glottal-gobstoppered friend - premonstration of premenstrual years of teenage angst to come. I left them simmering in the back and went into Tescos. (Once I despised Sunday shopping. Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy, I reverently spouted and signed their cross-hatched petitions. Now it's an everyday convenience.) I had to buy more eggs, you see. I'd started making a pavlova the night before, not knowing about the dog-sick disinfectant lingering in the dried out depths of the mixing bowl. It wouldn't whisk and form peaks; thank God it didn't whisk and form peaks and ...

... you can't make a Yorkshire pudding without breaking eggs.

Knock knock, who's there? James and Fiona arrived first with the dog, the girls and all their clutter, impeccably on time, far too early; I was still reeling cat fur off the dining chairs, wiping down the crusty kitchen layers. Sold out, that son did. It hurts to see him; you always have hopes of the eldest. I thought he had a soul at first - Eng. Lit. with Phil. at Durham, and he becomes a plod, a speed camera king. Fiona's helpful, in that patronising Scottish way of one who knows this kind of dirt isn't lingering on the carpets at her home. The clingfilm queen, I call her. At the end of every meal she clears the table, each morsel wrapped, filed and fridged away - a true NHS administrator. Does she honestly think we'll heat and eat them? Does she really think they won't grow a beard of mould together with the five tins of opened, date-late Whiskers on the shelf? Anyway, they took my mind off the batter with their vacuous chatter, so ...

... I forgot to make the fucking Yorkshire pudding.

Convexity distracted me. You know those serving covers they use in cod-archaic hotel restaurants at breakfast, the silver domed kind with a round hinged handle? That's what Kylie's belly looked like over the top of her crack dropped jeans, once again, my daughter-in-lawless number three. Flouncing through the door she came, one currant bun with a cherry on the top - cherry, some joke her. Didn't her mother ever teach her to eat with her mouth shut, sleep with her legs shut? Probably not - she lives by hosting Ann Summers parties herself. My poor thick son, Steven, the stud; his girlfriend covered in them, screwed into her body. Maybe this time she'll have the sense to take the ring off her navel before it turns inside out, and pull out the tongue stud before she swallows it in her uncessant labours. Christ knows what other studs the midwife's going to mine. ... Mine, that's what he thinks of the baby, that fat, blue-eyed, round-faced placid pudding of a child, so unlike my own bright brown-eyed infants. Oh yes, that reminds me ...

←2→

... I forgot to make the Yorkshire pudding.

They pour it on you, this grannydom. Not much you can do about it once they start to sprog. Today, there's only three of them mewling and puking ... tomorrow it'll be a warren. You should seem me do my granny act, lying on the floor, crawled upon and crawling, tickling with spider fingers their snotty, soft so-sticky skin.

'Gwanny, Gwanny, I wanna dwink.'

For God's sake, teach her to say her R's, wipe her own arse. Why can't the English teach their children how to speak? Stick on a video - it's all that quietens this primary coloured plastic happy meal generation. And the baby, Jesus ... that endless bloody whinging. Give him some gripe water, for Christ's sake. Mine used to drink it by the gallon. I did too. Have you seen the alcohol content they used to put in a bottle of Dinnefords? I have, twice every time.

Wine's the only remedy for whining, and I had a nice bottle of Mersault hidden away in the other fridge - not cardboard box Chardonnay. I'd kept it from Christmas, and it was slipping down smooth as warm honey on a sore throat. Wine, let us call thee devil? No, more like a seraph's kiss, and it might explain why ...

... I'd forgotten to make the bloody Yorkshire pudding.

Jesus, I needed some female support - someone on my side for once. On cue she came in, Katie, my Carry-On-Nursing daughter, F-cup above, size eight below, blonde and perky ... no wonder she thought she was reading the blood pressures wrong when she first put on her student's flimsy gaping uniform. And what had she brought with her this time? Let's have a look. Yum ... torso like Dallaglio, arse like a young Mel Gibson, legs like Beckham - not much hair on top - in fact not much up top in general, probably ... he plays rugby for the Tigers. He could rattle my cage any time.

←3→

Grandad with his nicked resigner stubble sat in his familiar armchair in the corner; even rugby didn't penetrate his beta-blockered boredom. He doesn't really get up all day; he'll never get it up tonight. Want to be a happy fucking granny? Fat chance. No wonder ...

... I forgot to make the fucking Yorkshire pudding.

Just two more to come now. God, we'd better all behave. In came the couple with the conscience, the pair with principles, the son with sod all in his pocket but treasure stored up in heaven. First in Law he took at Cambridge, and he's working for the CPS, for the good of his fellow man. He must be flaming daft. He should be practising to look after me in the manner to which I'd like to become accustomed. He's oh-so sensible, too, waiting to start a family until financial circumstances permit, until she's had good value from her M.A. He's another one with a Scottish wife, a washed-out vegetarian unlibertarian librarian with a nose, such a nose.

'Some time, mother,' (she calls me mother). 'I'll catalogue your library for you. I could alphabetize it or do it by subject. It would make it easier to find a book when you need it.'

Jesus, she'd have a shock if she tried. I've got books in plain covers Dewey never numbered a category for. Anyway, that's the fun of a full bookcase. It's not that I know where everything is ... exactly the opposite. You're looking for a dictionary and you get distracted by Dickens; hunting for the A-to-Z you pick up the Aristophanes and lose yourself in long-forgotten deciphering; Hemingway rubs shoulders with the Brontes, Thackeray with Binchey, Trollope with ... Trollope. I can forget myself in there, and Christ, that reminds me ...

... I forgot to make the Yorkshire pudding.

The women helped me dish up, while adult sons vied for points on the Disney dance mats, lumbering with surreal elephantine lack of grace to the cryptic arrows on the television screen. Sibling rivalry is never quite dead.

←4

There are only two things I can do well, and one of them is cooking. Roast rib of beef we had today bloody and unbowed, carrots, cabbage, beans and sprouts, roast potatoes and parsnips, wine-dark gravy. There was cheese for afters, a rich chocolate mousse (hail to the Goddess Delia), and an apple and mincemeat crumble laced with rum.

The house might be a wreck, but the table looked good. Dark blue with white lace - it always works. The silver was dishwasher shiny, the glasses gleamed and the wine flowed. The table extended down into the conservatory, wreathed in sunshine, ivy and bougainvillea. Norah Jones didn't mind being left in the background. Everybody talked incessantly, all at once ... mouths full, cutlery waving. It was great. I kept the kiddies in the kitchen.

Everybody talked at once, except for one - the quiet, grey-beard sitting at the head of the table, mild, confused, flustered by the noise and commotion. He looked up once only from his plate, and volunteered his sole, disappointed contribution:

'Isn't there any Yorkshire pudding? We always have Yorkshire pudding.'

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Average: 5 (1 vote)

Comments

Submitted by admin on Tue, 08/24/2004 - 11:47

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An enjoyable read about a family dinner and the thoughts of granny the cook. This short story started me thinking about the few times each year when my family gets together for a meal, and what my mother might be thinking about her grandchildren.

Submitted by admin on Thu, 09/02/2004 - 05:09

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Much as I want to like this story for the initial premise and the obviously acomplished style, Im afraid I cant handle the unrelieved attack of it. Its just too clever, too filled with puns and word play and linguistic fireworks; to such an extent that the text develops a monotony of its own (my heart actually sank at resigner stubble). Oddly enough, for someone who seems to be so totally characterised by her language, theres little sense of the narrator (for me at least) other than as a - disembodied - voice. It may be a tour de force, but theres something unrealised about it, despite the sparkling language.

Submitted by admin on Mon, 09/20/2004 - 10:32

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Absolutely Fantastic, an incredible read. It makes one think that maybe we all take our grandparents for granted, just because their old, doesnt mean we should treat them like that stereotypical old character that we expect, maybe some of us (myself included) should realise that they can still be young at heart. Once again a wonderful read.

Submitted by admin on Mon, 10/04/2004 - 10:20

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An enjoyable read, with some good fun wordplay in the middle. The constant repetition of I forgot to make the yorkshire pudding got really quite annoying, though. Yes, you daft old tart, we know.

Submitted by admin on Tue, 10/26/2004 - 11:51

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This was a great story. It said so much about the feelings so many reluctant Grans have when their offspring produce children that they are automatically supposed to bond with, care for and adore. The individual is placed in a box marked Gran - behaviour expected to follow the pattern as laid down by movies and society,

Submitted by admin on Sun, 10/31/2004 - 04:54

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Makes you wonder what your Granny thinks of you! Only problem I had was that the constant use of swearing and thoughts of Granny having a her cage rattled made her character slightly inaccessible. Interesting concept though.

Submitted by admin on Tue, 11/09/2004 - 02:52

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Oh dear! Have we become so immune to swearing that we would actually recommend our teenagers to read this? I know that people swear...we all know the real world...but why,oh why promote it. I was looking for stories to use with my EFL class but no way would I use something with so unimaginative use of our language.

Submitted by admin on Wed, 11/10/2004 - 09:26

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evil

Submitted by admin on Wed, 12/08/2004 - 09:52

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I throughly enjoyed this well written short story. I thought the repition of "i forgot to make the yorkshire pudding" was very effective and, well that is all I really have to say, other than this story was great!

Submitted by admin on Tue, 12/21/2004 - 00:32

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As a teacher of creative writing I can see (as clearly other commentators cannot) that this is a poorly written story which ignores all the basic rules of good writing. I suggest the author takes one of the many free on-line courses and stops boring us with this ill-wrought rubbish.

Submitted by admin on Wed, 12/22/2004 - 11:23

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Granny could be wonderful - but because this story feels so rushed in the writing, theres a lack of any kind of character development. I cant help feeling there are so many missed opportunities here - is anyone really surprised that older people like sex and have their own opinions? That we might be is what the writer seems to be relying on, otherwise I cant see the point of this. Its just cynical and sour.

Submitted by admin on Thu, 01/06/2005 - 13:13

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Not clever at all. A silly story made even worse (if thats possible) by the over use of swear words where they are not needed. Try to widen your vocabulary it may improve your writing style - it needs it Im afraid. You are obviously new to wrtiign and need a good teacher. All I can say is dont give up the day job!

Submitted by admin on Fri, 01/07/2005 - 12:35

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What an excellent story and such a talented writer! I empathize with Granny and admire that in her seemingly under-appreciated life, she was able to keep the family together despite her own wants and desires and in the noticeable absence of a confidant. I loved her dark wit!

Submitted by admin on Fri, 01/07/2005 - 12:58

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It is hard to feel sympathy for someone so relentlessly bad tempered. Writing good characters is about striking a balance, so that even unattractive characters have their attractions. We need to relate to her. We dont. Would a woman who appears to be so well read have such a limited and foul vocabulary? I agree with the previous comments. Hasnt granny heard of Aunt Bessies?

Submitted by admin on Sat, 01/08/2005 - 07:26

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Once one gets over the millisecond long shock value of a granny that says fuck this story doesnt have much to recommmend it. She doesnt have a confidante because shes a miserable old woman with no redeeming qualities.

Submitted by admin on Thu, 01/13/2005 - 12:09

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"As a teacher of creative writing I can see (as clearly other commentators cannot) that this is a poorly written story which ignores all the basic rules of good writing." What a mixture of pomposity, arrogance and intellectual vulgarity. This is exactly the kind of teacher of creative writing that writers need to be protected from. A pity it isnt signed.

Submitted by admin on Mon, 01/17/2005 - 14:02

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"As a teacher of creative writing I can see (as clearly other commentators cannot) that this is a poorly written story which ignores all the basic rules of good writing. I suggest the author takes one of the many free on-line courses and stops boring us with this ill-wrought rubbish. " Without commenting on this story, the above is hilarious. This writer won a mere EIGHT first prizes last year for her stories and as many seconds and thirds. Still youre a teacher of Creative Writing so you must be right. Still now we are heer, perhaps you can post the "basic rules of writing" for us?

Submitted by admin on Fri, 01/21/2005 - 07:07

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Here we go again. Once again someone comes along to tell us that since this person has won competitions, everything they write must be brilliant. Strange how this response reminds me of similar responses for that equally dire story Teddy Bears Picnic. Or was it Sue Lawleys something or other? Is this the same writer? That figures. The bad spelling gives it away. As for the prize wins by Alexandra Fox (or Barbara Faux as shes sometimes known), they werent all first prizes surely? Some were second and third places, some commendations, and some were taken back due to ... well, goodness knows what reason, though we could ask the people at Long Story Short. At least thats what I read in an open forum at some place thats supposed to have a reliable list of hits by this writer, or notes as they call those the owner doesnt want to admit are hits, but still want to count for the purposes of selling the place to unsuspecting and gullible new writers.

Submitted by admin on Fri, 01/21/2005 - 08:10

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Actually this writer won four first places last year. The rest were seconds, thirds and commendations. One prize from Literary Pot Pouri was taken back for some reason. Perhaps the judges had an attack of good taste. The details of this writers can be seen at Boot Camp on ezboard in a thread called 2004 success stories. Hurry along there as the owner will remove the evidence very soon. He doesnt like the fact that some of us are better at maths than him. It is a pity that he felt the need to massage the figures on this board. Most people would have been impressed with the four wins.

Submitted by admin on Fri, 01/21/2005 - 11:09

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I love to read the sour grapes and nastiness (from the unsigned, of course) In Boot Camp we PUBLISH the winners etc for all to see These are the main wins for Alexandra Fox in 2004 1st prize at JBWB Autumn Comp £150 1st prize at Peninsular Summer Comp £200 1st prize at Momaya Comp £150 1st prize at BBC Northampton Comp (Trophy) 1st prize at Writing Writers Open Theme Comp 1st prize at Pencil Comp 300 Euros Joint winner at BBC/LBF Short-short Comp (Tickets value £60) And in Jan 2005 she won 7Qs First 2K competition £100 2nd prize at Northern Echo/Orange Comp 2nd prize (joint) at Surrey International Writers (Canada) 2nd prize at Blackberry Hill Comp (USA) Runner-up at Peninsular Spring Comp 3rd prize at Cambrensis Short Story Comp 3rd prize at Cynic Christmas Comp 3rd prize at 7th Quark Frantic Flash 1 (3rd prize at LitPot Anniversary Non-Fic comp – withdrawn) Runner-up at Hastings Legend Comp Runner up at BBC Northampton Comp Laudable Mention at The Tundra Prize Commended at Cadenza Honourable Mention at Christchurch Named Finalist and Judge’s Mention at Guildford Commended in WriteLink Christmas Comp Featured story at East of the Web Story in Get Writing Anthology 1 Named Finalist in OnceWritten Midnight Hour comp Finalist at Scribble comp Current finalist Coast to Coast (TBA)     Publications: Aesthetica Absinthe Literary Review Ink Pot Eclectica (2) The Paumanok Review Smokelong QWF 10th Anniversary Issue Seventh Quark Quiet Feather Flashquake (non-fic) Birmingham Words (2) Canopic Jar (4) Seeker (2) LSS (3 + SoM) Rose & Thorn (4) Bluemag Plum Biscuit Toasted Cheese Cold Glass As for LSS, their comments were so out of order they were legally obliged to remove them and did so. They took umbrage when Boot Camp decided the outlet was too low level to count as a hit. Alex Keegan  

Submitted by admin on Fri, 01/21/2005 - 20:26

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Just as a matter of interest, which of these eight first places do you think are made up? 1st prize at JBWB Autumn Comp 1st prize at Peninsular Summer Comp 1st prize at Momaya Comp 1st prize at BBC Northampton Comp 1st prize at Writing Writers Open Theme Comp 1st prize at Pencil Comp Joint winner at BBC/LBF Short-short Comp 1st prize 7th Quark 2K comp AK

Submitted by admin on Sat, 01/22/2005 - 17:34

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I liked this story and ive seen others by her elsewhere, Lexie is a fab writer and deserves the success she is having.In a single year she has had far more competition wins than the guy who always claims credit for teaching her and who always boasts about her successes! In 2004 the only success he had were £200 from Cadenza, £50 from Peninsular, £25 from Lichfield and a certificate from Mere. Plus dozens of what he calls hits in a bunch of obscure non paying e-zines and a few more reprints of Ballistics. Just this despite subbing over 500 pieces during the year! It was a terrible shame this guys antics embarrassed Lexie and got her disqualified from competitions - she deserves better. I think she is a name to watch.

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