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Story by Big M
Granny had been having a rough week. It all started with an experimental batch of Pilsener that just didn’t work. The beer was bland and tasteless, probably due to the stale hops that she had bought on the internet, rather than her brewing skills, but it was still over a hundred litres of beer that went down the drain.
Then Granny missed two mornings of boxing training because she couldn’t get out of bed, instead, leaving Merv to, not only train by himself, but also cook the pub breakfast. Things finally came to a head when Granny tried to start the pub’s ancient Victa, ‘just to give the yard a quick tidy up.’ She pulled the mower cord until she had a cramp in her side, then tried to pick it up and throw it in the skip, but just didn’t have the energy, so she dropped it on it’s side, which resulted in petrol pouring onto the grass. Granny sat down next to the mower, cradled her face in her brown, calloused hands, and sobbed.
Granny would have sat there all afternoon, had not Merv come looking for her to discuss this week’s fruit and vegetable order. Quick as a flash, Merv realised that something was wrong. “What’s wrong Granny, are you hurt?” He enquired as righted the stricken mower.
“Nothin’, just chuck that old, worn out heap of shit in the skip for me!” Granny wouldn’t look up, and wouldn’t stop crying.
“I’m not chuckin’ this good mower out, probably just needs a service!’ Merv was mentally calculating the cost of a new mower, hoping it wouldn’t come to that.
“Its old and worn out like me, just get rid of it!” Granny finally got to her feet.
Merv wasn’t a psychologist, but he knew that there was probably more to this than just a buggered mower. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll drop this round to old Fernando, and see if he can get it running, I mean, there’s no sense in chuckin’ something’ out just because it’s old!” Merv placed the mower in the back of his ute. “Come on old love, I’ll make you a cuppa.” Granny reluctantly allowed herself to be guided back into the kitchen.
A week passed, and Granny remained out of sorts. Merv didn’t mind, it meant he could go to boxing training in the mornings, and be left in peace! In fact he slackened right off, and just did some low intensity aerobic work. He received the call to say that the mower was ready, so asked Hedgie to watch the bar (and Foodge, of course!), then casually asked granny if she wanted to go for a drive. “Might as well” She replied as she wiped her hands on a dirty rag. “Not getting anywhere with this.” A small pump lay dismantled on the cellar floor. Granny didn’t have much to say on the way, which, Merv reflected, was just how he liked his women!
The mower shop was in a back lane, but the presentation was anything but back lane. The name, ‘Fernando’s Small Engine Repairs’ was emblazoned across the top of the front window which held, not a bunch of dirty old mowers, but a pristine, black and silver, Bultaco Metralla, suspended from the ceiling on stainless steel wires. Granny let out a gasp. “That is just immaculate!”
“So, you like my bike? Mr Merv, you brought your sister to my dirty workshop. This is no place for a lady!”
“Um, err…Granny, this is Fernando, the proprietor and worker of two stroke magic, umm…Fernando, this is Granny.” Fernando shook Granny’s hand enthusiastically.
“Mr Merv, this young lady can’t be somebody’s ‘abuela’? Fernando shook his head, only now revealing his grey hair pulled back into a ponytail.
“Nah, mate, we all call her Granny!” Merv was still looking at the bike wondering how the hell those little drum brakes could pull it up at a hundred miles per hour. He remembered trying to chase one when he was a highway patrolman. He didn’t fail to notice that Granny was looking at the floor, and shuffling her feet. “Anyhoo, mate, how didja get on with the mower?”
“Come in, come in…here she is, almost like new.” Fernando wheeled out the old Victa, that had been repainted, received a new muffler and air cleaner, and started like rugby league player on steroids, which he briefly demonstrated (the starting of the mower, not the football player, OR the steroids).
“Jeez, mate, she’ll go another fifty years!” Merv and Fernando huddled together to discuss money. It seemed he didn’t want to charge for any labour. Eventually Merv slipped him another fifty, whilst he wasn’t looking.
“That’s a nice little motor you’ve got there, Granny!” Fernando enthused.
“Oh.” Granny blushed.” It’s only an old Victa!”
“I wasn’t talking about the motor-mower, Senora!” Fernando winked as Merv busied himself with the mower. “How about sharing a meal with me?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I have nothing to wear!”
“Yes, you do.” Yelled Merv, from outside. “For gawd’s sake, just say ‘yes’!”
Granny was more animated on the trip home.” I think you set me up, you bugger!”
“Maybe.”
“You know that I really don’t have a thing to wear, and my hair needs cutting, and a bit of makeup wouldn’t go astray!” Granny was pretty anxious.
“It’s all sorted. I’ll drop you ‘ome, so you can ‘ave a showr, or whatever.” Merv swerved to miss a skateboarder. “Then you slip over to Rosie’s, for an ‘airdo, nail somethin’ or other, special make-up, and Rosie’s sister’s got some leftover material, an’ can knock up a dress this arvo.”
Seven o’clock rolled around, and Granny was still nowhere to be seen. Fernando had arrived, all decked out in his newest dinner suit, purchased in 1981. His corsage, however, was brand new, fit for a debutante.
Suddenly the bar went quiet, as a vision of loveliness seemed to drift though, hovering just above the floor. Granny’s grey hair, which was usually tied back, or in a tight chignon, was cascading down her back, which, by the way was bare. The backless, silk dress in jade was perfectly complemented with a string of pearls, and matching earrings. Her make-up was subtle, but it was the sparkle in her eyes, not the eye shadow, that made everyone stare. Fernando stepped forward, kissed her hand then offered his arm, which Granny took eagerly. “Don’t wait up, boys!”
Only Foodge spoke. “Who was that young lady, Merv?”
algernon1 said:
Granny polishes up pretty well. Did Fernando where one of those frilly front numbers?
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Hung One On said:
Geez M, this is even above “yo” level, amazing.
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Voice said:
That Merv. He realised straight away that what Granny needed was a good bike.
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sandshoe said:
Gee whillickers, Big M. I was cruisin’ along readin’ when I thought you’d put the thing in a spin and you pulled her right out of a blue funk that was going bloomin’ nowhere in the brewery, next thing she’s got the spinnaker up and the sails are sorted comin’ into the straight so to speak. Merv wants to come to some useful agreement with benefits with a bloke who’s got a brill machine! Well that’s a rave, Big M. You’ll have to write another one or someone will.
Granny trying to throw the old Victa in the skip gets my vote for funny. So funny. 🙂
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Carisbrooke said:
We were lucky in our village, we had the village bike. Most got a ride, for pint of oil.
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Voice said:
And your family never had to go cold in winter.
Oh well, someone had to say it and everyone else has too much class.
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algernon1 said:
Double entendre?
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vivienne29 said:
Thoroughly enjoyable. Look forward to the next instalment.
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atomou said:
A love interest!
Oh, my Zeus!
Will our Foodgie be next in the fisherwoman’s line?
Those damned Aitais! Lotharios every single one of them! Give them your lawn mower and they rip your virtue off, if not your entire virginity!
But he’s met his match now, in granny, chef of the great wedge!
Good to see the young granny come out of her bad hair day, all guns blazing!
Good one, Big one!
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atomou said:
And I love the Kamikaze!
It’s a sort of a metaphor, isn’t it – Granny, the Kamikaze of love?
Eros’ divine wind?
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atomou said:
I forgot to make this little critical observation, however, Big One: Somehow, the image of granny crying jars a little in my jar of fantasy marbles! This is not the victa-throwing, wedge-baking granny I know.
The Granny I know could stand in the middle of a rugby ground -the sole and whole team!- and shout, Hercules like unbearable insults at the opposing team, daring them to tackle her, if they wanted to lose their tackle!
Not the Granny I know!
But I think I know what you’re trying to do, literary-wise: You’re trying to soften her image so that she can move on to the next stage in her life, where wedgies are performed on the altar of the conjugal bed… yes?
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vivienne29 said:
Very interesting idea Ato. This could turn into a romance fit to publish a la Barbara Cartland. Could make a motza.
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atomou said:
Barbarian is my second name!
Full of ideas… most of them ouzoical!
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vivienne29 said:
Do we know how old granny is supposed to be? I have an acquaintance who became a grandmother at the ripe old age of 33. She also rode a motor bike. And a cat named Shania.
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Big M said:
By the Goddess, you lot have already skipped ahead about three chapters. Enough to give a girl honeymoon cystitis!
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Therese Trouserzoff said:
Great story, Big. What impeccable taste. I did some homework on the mighty Spanish Bultaco Metralla – apparently they also made liquid cooled versions. The little tackers could actually run up to 150km/h and had a dry weight of 112kg. This is a truly awesome power to weight ratio. Imagine doing almost the old ton on a machine that weighs about the same as the rider ! Scary !
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Big M said:
Thanks, Emm, my dad’s, now deceased (surprisingly!) mate, rebuilt a Metralla in the mid 70s. He reckoned he saw the the needle inch past the 90 mph mark a couple of times. I’ve never seen the LC versions, but imagine they could be awesome. They sold a racing kit: bigger carby, high compression head, ported cylinder and shallow skirted piston, which was identical to the factory racing team mods.
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