Granny and Granda are watching a genuinely bad sitcom on TV. I am not watching it, mainly because it is genuinely bad, but also because I am doing a jigsaw puzzle.
This is the latest event in my gradual spiral into Crazy Old Cat Lady territory: spending a Friday night on the sofa with my grandparents, doing a jigsaw puzzle. I started it with Granny earlier in the week, but she lost interest after a few nights. I, on the other hand, cannot leave something like that unfinished, and am therefore utterly incapable of continuing with my life until I have completed the damn jigsaw.
Anyway, I’m half-listening to the woeful dialogue on the TV as I wrestle hopelessly with 6 million identical pieces of blue sky. Two characters appear to be trapped in a lift, having one of those conversations where they take turns at beginning to speak about a different subject while the other one thinks they’re still talking about the first one, and then vice versa. It is terribly unfunny, but I hear Granny give a cackle as it happens for the dozenth time, one character saying something serious and profound only for the other one to say “Eh? I was talking about the pork scratchings!”.
They’re like us! she says to Granda. It is quite true. Sometimes I think one of them could start talking about flesh-eating giant caterpillars, in a different language, and the other one would respond with “yes, it’s a cold auld night!”. Granny’s observation is, after all, very astute.
Yes, pork scratchings, says Granda, rather brilliantly.
Talking past each other, I mean, adds Granny.
Yes, we used to eat them, agrees Granda as I focus desperately on a piece of cloud, trying not to laugh lest I interrupt the splendor of this conversation.
Eh? says Granny.
Where was it we bought them? muses Granda, lost in a memory of pork scratchings gone by. What’s that place called?
Benidorm, says Granny, possibly referring to the location on screen as opposed to the pork scratching vendor. One’s talking about one thing and the other’s talking about something else.
Was that down Church Street? asks Granda.
Is that Church Street in Benidorm as well as here?! asks Granny, surprised by the coincidence.
It wouldn’t surprise me, says Granda, nodding wisely.
Both of them become distracted at this point, as I am in hysterics and can’t explain what’s so funny, so have to pass it off as excitement at being almost finished my puzzle. (It’s not until my amusement has passed that I will realise how tragic it is that they accept this as a plausible explanation. I’ve got to get out more.)
If I could put my family on TV, it’d be the comedy hit of the decade, seriously.