So, I call up my mate, and her daughter picks up.
“Emily,” I say, “put your mum on, will ya?”
“Can’t,” the kid replies. “Mums taken Gran to buy some trainers and elastic-waist jeans. Grans got a cruise coming up.”
Honestly, I nearly let slip something I shouldnt in front of a child. Because my mates mumnot long agowas shuffling around the house in slippers, barely making it to the garden bench, and always going on in this frail little voice about her “impending departure,” especially when guests were over.
But my pal, Lucyshes the daughterdecided enough was enough. All that doom and gloom was dragging the whole family down. So, back in spring, she stumbled across this posh senior tourParis and the countryside, all-inclusive. Luggage handled, transport sorted, even medical staff on hand to help if needed. And extra helpers to carry bagsor the grannies themselves, if it came to it.
Gran, credit where its due, put up a fight at first. She saw right through it”Oh, so youre shipping me off to Paris for ten days because you think Im about to kick the bucket? Lovely.” But eventually, she caved. Especially when her best mate, Margaretequally fond of swapping ailments and prescriptionsdecided shed tag along. “Might as well go out with a bang, eh?”
So off they went, the pair of themone 75, the other pushing 78bundled into a taxi, waved off with strict instructions to behave, and handed over to the tour crew at Heathrow.
The trip? Brilliant. Gran phoned home every day on the mobile theyd given her, chattering away for ages about the full English breakfasts, the fancy dinners, the sights. But there was one tiny hiccupGran got a bit backed up. New place, hotel food, you know how it is. Not exactly a topic she fancied bringing up with the tour medics.
So, she pops into this little chemists opposite the hotelsuper modern, very Parisian. Shelves packed with lotions, potions, weird little gadgets, some self-service. Gran starts scanning the aisles, circling three times, picking up anything vaguely resembling what shes after. Problem? These items were *unusual* shapes. But hey, its Paris. Theyre ahead of the curve.
Meanwhile, the pharmacistproper baffledwatches her poking at things. He tries to help. *”Parlez-vous français? Do you speak English? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”*
Now, Gran knows a *bit* of everything. *”Bonjour.”* *”Hi.”* *”Bye.”* And *”kaputt”* in Germanwhich, lets be honest, isnt helpful. So she starts miming. Slaps her backside, then gestures something round and long.
The poor blokes eyes nearly pop out. Hes equal parts terrified and impressed.
Turns out, Gran *does* speak English. He signals for her to stay put, legs it out the door, and drags back this old boy who looks straight out of a Sherlock Holmes noveltweed cap, pipe, the lot. Turns out hes some posh expat, maybe minor aristocracy, who reads *The Telegraph* at the café next door.
Heres the kickerthis wasnt a chemists. It was a *sex shop*. The “pharmacist” (yeah, right) had panicked, thinking Gran was after something *very* specific. When the penny dropped, Gran didnt faint. Didnt run out screaming. Oh no. She just squinted at the merchandise and went, *”Whats this one do? And that? Hang on, whats *that* for?”*
Even the posh translator was stumped on some items. So the shopkeeper gives them a full demo. Gran just sniffs and says, *”Pathetic. In my day, we managed just fine without all these silly contraptions, didnt we?”*
*”Quite right, madam,”* the old boy chuckles.
Long story short? Gran came home with more than souvenirs. Shes now pen pals with this bloke. Theyre planning a Caribbean cruise.
*”Its a nightmare,”* Lucy moans down the phone. *”His kids keep ringing from France, whinging that their dads too old for this nonsense. I told em to keep their grandad in checkhes the one leading Mum astray!”*
Meanwhile? Those two are packing suitcases, buying *more* elastic jeans. Because the cruise? Its happening.
