We were at my Gran’s today, my mum, Baby and I. Eating cake and choc chip cookies and shortbread and drinking instant coffee. Smelling lace and doilies and crafts.
My Gran has the most unfortunate possession. In my opinion. That is, a dead ferret stole that in the olden days one may have fancied to clip around one’s neck. Ew.
As I was leaning over Gran’s sewing machine, having a little peek at her handiwork, I felt Mum playing with the back of my cardigan. I thought she was picking off pilling or the like until I reached back, slowly, slowly, to feel something skinny and furry and dead. Clipped to my cardigan by its dead ferret teeth. Long and skinny and dead.
Nannywho giggles and tries to comfort Baby.
Motherwho whisks Baby away from evil, dead ferret-toting Nannywho.
Nannywho opens and closes dead ferret mouth, pointed in our direction.
Knashing dead ferret teeth together.
Giggling and laughing.
Gran: three words. Throw. It. Out!
Yuck, yuck, yuck. I don’t want to talk anymore about it.