I have suspected that Grandpa is out to get me for a while now. And today I can present to you irrefutable proof that he wants me to be miserable.
He’s turning 80 this coming November and it seems that perhaps 80 is the age at which one may decide to Take Matters Into One’s Own Hands. Because things have certainly escalated since his 79th birthday.
I started to notice it just after Christmas when I attempted to begin organising the 80th birthday bash. He retaliated by attempting to remove himself from this mortal coil by way of heart attack, presumably planning to retreat to an alternate universe (or coil?) where he is rich enough to live independently of his annoying granddaughter. And also (presumably) rich enough to hire a guy to assassinate said Granddaughter’s happiness for him, so that he doesn’t have to do it himself.
Of course, I immediately put all birthday party preparations on hold so as not to antagonise the old bugger. But this was not enough to quell his insatiable fury. He cleverly devised a plan to try and make me throw myself off this mortal coil, thus leaving him in peace to live out his days away from other people’s triathlon histrionics.
It started fairly halfheartedly, with cunning schemes to wear me down through incessant doctors appointments at a surgery he’d carefully selected for its waiting room that offered zero entertainment. This enabled Grandpa to begin to weaken me with stories that he started and then promptly forgot the ending of, half way through. Over and over again. If you’ve ever wondered where the term ‘cliff-hanger’ comes from, it is a derivation of ‘hanging out around cliffs ready to throw oneself off a suitable edge when one’s Grandfather forgets the endings to stories he is telling’.
You learn something new every day on this blog.
He then ramped things up with a few unexpected hits, making me take him on a 2-hour shopping expedition to buy pyjama pants (yes, two hours, one pair of pyjama bottoms) and at one point attempting to pay for his groceries using his drivers licence.
That’s your drivers licence, Grandpa.
That is your drivers licence.
What do you mean?
That thing in your hand, Grandpa, it’s your driver’s licence.
(He stares at left hand, which is empty)
No! Your right hand! You are trying to pay with your drivers licence!
Oh I see. That won’t work will it darling (chuckles evilly knowing that he has almost won)
But I have his blood. Not literally, but I am made of the same bat-shit crazy as he is. So I would not be beaten. When he wasn’t looking I swapped his rye bread for wholemeal. Huh! Grandpa if you are reading this and plotting a cute comment to leave below (in what I KNOW is a blatant attempt to steal my blog readers away!) then I hope your eyes are watering at the thought of this deception. But they probably aren’t because I also nicked your eye drops.
With our incessant fighting at a stalemate, Grandpa has gone to England to visit a selection of his other family members. He may be sussing out whether he could live with one of them instead, I don’t know. Family, if you are reading this, he is not as cute and docile as he seems. You have been warned.
So anyway, I thought I would have a couple of months’ rest from him and his antics. But he is smarter than he makes out, I tell you.
I dropped him at the airport and we made a big show of hugging and crying but in reality we both had knife-proof vests on under our Airport Farewell Gear just in case ‘someone’ tried to stab us in the back and then escape the country to a place without extradition laws. I can’t say which place in case I need to go in future, but you can email me directly if you are interested/desperate/also living with a nutcase Grandpa.
After our public display of pretend sadness, as soon as I could, I jumped back in my car and sped away home to freedom. It was not until some time later that I discovered The Note.
In an incredibly obvious, blatant, disgusting attempt to destroy my happily data-less state that I have waxed lyrical about on this blog as little as four weeks ago, Grandpa had apparently bought me a bloody Garmin.
The cheek of it astounded me. He isn’t normally this see-through in his attempts to make me miserable. In the past he has cloaked it much better. But I am kind of glad that now all of you blog readers will be able to see first-hand the kind of sh*t I have to put up with.
SIDENOTE: If you missed the post on why I am perfectly happy without a Garmin watch, please catch up.
Of course, I spent the first few days after his departure reeling. I was afraid, I was angry, I was upset. I wasted countless hours trying to devise a plan to escape Grandpa’s unmistakable ploy to ruin my life. But I knew that as soon as this watch he promised turned up on my doorstep, it would clamp itself to my poor wrist and seal my fate as a miserable triathlete forever.
Now, I know the note stated that this strategic battle in our war should remain between the two of us. Which I suppose you may think is very admirable, not wanting to draw innocent people into this catastrophe. But I ask you, dear reader, would you not have wanted to know the reason for my sudden onset of depression this week? Would you not have asked about the monstrosity that has suddenly appeared on my wrist? Of course I had to share this outrageous turn of events with you.
Personally I think the reason he may have wanted to keep this ‘hush-hush’ was to keep Interpol off his back. This damned watch must have cost him a kidney, which he has probably sold on the black market while he is in the UK. It would be so like him to sell his bloody kidney just to buy me something. He is evil incarnate.
So anyway, the watch arrived and before I knew what was happening it was strapped to my unsuspecting wrist. I immediately had to go for a swim to test out once and for all how painfully slow I am. I cycled down to the pool and back so that I could check the bike stats as well, mainly just to prove I didn’t need a watch to tell me I am brilliant at cycling. And after pacing around the house for a while after all that, I decided to go for a little run as well. It was so depressing I can barely sit and write about it.
To top it off, I am about to put a bloody photo of the thing on Instagram. Yep. Will I ever find happiness again? I doubt it, I seriously doubt it.
Please leave your hate mail comments for Grandpa below. Thank you for your support in this terrible time.