The Highest Form of Flattery

Sitting down for a cuppa with Grandma and her friend, Tracey and a swag of our kids were having a chat.

Generally our kids are well behaved at Grandmas, and they love going over, but you can’t always control what the kids will pull out of a situation and find amusing. Maybe it was the talk of corns, aches or checkups, but suddenly Master7 was drawing chuckles from Miss8 and Miss5.

He was bent over with one hand on his hip and the other stretched out in front of him and he was mumbling something.
“What’s wrong with him?” said Grandma as Master7 maintained this odd stance as he shuffled over to the table. “What’s he saying?”
Master7 turned around and did the same thing again, this time back across the room to the door. 
Again he mumbled and, in horror, Tracey realized what he was saying and what this bizarre pantomime was about.
“What’s he saying?” repeated Grandma more loudly. “Is he alright?”
Suddenly it was clear to Tracey the hand out in front of Master7 was meant to be clutching a cane. She wanted to get him to stop but words wouldn’t leap fast enough to her lips.
Pivoting, our boy trotted across the lounge room like a giant teapot. By now the two girls were in serious danger of losing control of their bladders. This time he spoke loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear, his voice warbling for an added note of authenticity. 
“I’m an old man,” he said with his cheeky grin firmly in place. “I’m an old, ooooold man.”
Not if you keep that up you bugger.

Fortunately Grandma and her friend didn’t seem to mind, or they’re so deaf they still don’t know what he was doing. Either way really.

What do you think?

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.