The concept of sitting

I like to sit on the floor to work and write. If I was allowed to sprawl out on the floor in my office then I would but I don’t, instead I sit on a swivel chair with my legs tucked under. I like my centre of gravity being low to the ground and being able to stretch – maybe to even touch my toes.

This might be a Japanese tendency which I’ve inherited. In the not-so-distant past, every household sat on the tatami mat floor to eat their meals and watch TV. My Obaachan grew up getting up and down off the floor, she would work at her sewing machine with her legs tucked under her. 

My aunt bought her a new navy-blue armchair for the sitting room lately. It was a nice gesture because Obaachan who is ninety snoozes on her hard dining room chair every night watching television. This new armchair gave her something to feel embraced in, however, like grandmother like granddaughter; Obaachan one night toppled over the armchair and banged her head on the side of the kerosene stove, which upon impact turned itself off immediately. The boiling kettle atop the stove did not fall but teetered.

Obaachan didn’t tell her daughter (my aunt) who had bought her the armchair about what happened until a week later, feeling ashamed and silly for causing a near emergency. Her head had swollen but nothing had cracked nor bled. She now tells me she can’t go to the hairdressers anymore in case they ask questions regarding the bruise on her head.

When I found out about her accident a month later, I was mortified. She could have badly burned her face and died. Then what? 

I asked her, ‘Oh my goodness how did you fall off the chair?’

She said, ‘It was my fault for having sat in it.’

I was confused as this conversation (like all conversations with my grandmother) was happening in Japanese. 

‘I don’t understand, of course you sat in it. It’s a chair.’

‘Yes, but you’re not supposed to sit on chairs, are you? You’re meant to perch on them with your bottom.’

‘What?’

‘I tucked my legs under: I sat on it. That was the problem.’

‘Oh.’

And I realised to sit in Japanese probably does mean something different than to sit in England. All this time I’ve been sitting in London, I’ve just been perching on chairs! No wonder it felt uncomfortable. It makes me wonder if this verb “to sit” contains within it a generational difference as well as a cultural one. 

If I asked Japanese passers-by on the street what their idea of sitting means – does it have to involve a chair? Or the ground? Or can you arguably sit on both – like I had imagined it all these years; even though in my body I knew I preferred sitting on the floor; had I expanded the idea of sitting to encompass all furnishings and elements of the world one could sit on, like a tree stump or a toadstool in the case where you’re a tiny fairy?

Rice

In my kitchen while pottering around I put the leftover rice from the curry last night into a bowl and pour hot water over it (I don’t know where I learnt this). I think it’s an interpretation of Japanese ocha-zuké, where you pour green tea over cold rice, adding some condiments to make it into a palatable refreshing gruel. It’s to decrease waste – my Obaachan absolutely hated wasting anything – a child of The War. If there’s rice stuck to the bottom of the pan then simply add water, put it on the heat and stir. Throw in chopped cabbage, ginger, maybe a dash of soy sauce, spring onions. Why not crack an egg? Don’t you worry, I know what to do with leftover rice.

I use both hands to lift my bowl and carry it surreptitiously into our garden, tiptoeing across the patio slabs so as not to get my feet dirty. I manoeuvre onto the wicker chair and listen to the birdsong trilling. Energetic weeds push up between the slabs – they must’ve gone through a growth spurt during this hot spell – peach coloured roses droop from their stems and the lavender is buzzing. I pull my spoon around the bowl and up to my mouth to get the intense salty taste of chicken stock, the spicy tang of curry cubes and the wholesomeness of white rice.

This is the first time I’ve stayed in London over summer. My world has shrunk enormously, just like everyone else’s and eating food has become an event. Slowly my mind feels like it’s being re-wired to approach situations differently, with more time and flex, simply, the world seems more bendy.

I’ve lived here all my life and still the habits of Obaachan bubble up inside me. For an eighty-six-year-old she moves pretty fast. She might be talking to you from the kitchen, but when you reply she’s already out in the back-garden sweeping the paving stones. I can never keep track of her movements in her own home because that is her domain. Her hair is tightly permed framing her robust face like a cropped lion’s mane; she usually wears an indigo smock with a fetching owl motif over her clothes when she executes her cleaning rituals. Every morning Obaachan gets down on her hands and knees and wipes the floorboards; vacuum-cleans the carpets, both upstairs and downstairs. I caught her once, astride the bath-tub in oversized wellingtons (to stop her feet from getting wet), reaching up to the corners of the ceiling with a mop. I told her to get down carefully and never do it again. What if she were to slip and crack her head on the side of the solid stone bath? She bared her teeth and laughed at me, saying she would never do it again. As if I believed her.

I speak to my grandma every Sunday, although since lockdown it’s been more frequent – it was the best thing we did getting her a smartphone. When I see her pixelated world on my screen it reaffirms for me that another reality can exist. I see the rice-grass spun rope hanging from the kami dana (shrine) in her living room. This small wooden shrine is a house for the many gods, or kami and is positioned just below the ceiling, so when Obaachan holds up her camera phone, the kami dana floats above her head in the background. On the altar stands two vases of freshly cut leaves, a cup of water, and salt on a white porcelain dish. It’s something special that over the many earthquakes her house has endured the kami dana has never come crashing to the ground. I examine the background while talking to her and occasionally I’ll convince myself that her world and my world are not contradictory. Even though our cultures are different, I perfectly understand us.

This physical distance that’s been imposed on us is not too dissimilar from how we used to live. I only get to see her once a year – meeting only once a year isn’t enough when you’re over eighty – we both know realistically there’s not many years left. But this virus has made plans uncertain, a mental breach of something we both held so dearly, the promise of seeing each other again. Missing someone like that isn’t something you can do every day, otherwise the pull gets too strong and becomes a strain. It wears you down and you start to lose hope. So, as long as Obaachan keeps cleaning and I stick to my work… holding the bigger picture in my head, we will share a meal together again. It will be alright.

We have a rice-cooker in Japan, which Obaachan uses every day. Usually she cooks 1 gō of rice for herself (approximately 1 cup) because rice doesn’t keep, but when I’m visiting, she cooks up to 5 gō a piece. ‘Rice tastes better when you are here’, she says to me because the grains become fluffier with a greater volume of water and cooking time. A pang of pity swells inside me because I am reminded, every day she eats alone. Obaachan who is such a good storyteller, captivating us with her funny asides and character voices. Why does she have to eat alone? Because her eldest daughter emigrated to England, her younger daughter married-out to another man’s family as is the way, and her husband died.

I think about her now as I eat my rice. The two of us separated by thousands of miles – it’s not impossible – we could be eating rice at the same time. Not in the same place but in the same present performing the same actions, as in a ritual, finishing off a half-drawn circle; stirring my spoon around the bowl’s edge, tasting the sacred white rice.

Dead Seal Scrolls

‘Merry Christmas!’ says my Grancha, ‘who wants some sherry?’

‘It’s Christmas Eve not Christmas yet’ interjects Granny, ‘you always want to be early for things.’

‘Oh. I see darling. B’won’t stop us from having sherry though will you?’ He asks sweetly but already up and meandering over to the drinks counter. Grandparents in Orkney are the sort of people who have a drinks counter; two bottles of Castelgy Gin, bitter lemon Scheweppes - almost certainly flat, aged sherry sweet and dry, a vintage Taylor’s port, and some red wine that I drank the whole lot of last night. 

The fire is grinning and burning up, toasting the backs of old socks and yesterday, I, as the Youngest of the Lot was on my hands and knees digging ash out of the lead bucket that’s been stuck in the fireplace for over a decade. The grill has snapped in two due to the continuous fires overhead but it still works and can’t be replaced anymore. Scraping ash in the morning - and seven piles of it - when touched feels cold and smooth, like the pebbles on the beach outside. When I was six I threw a tantrum and ran down to Watersound and had a go at the sea, I was angry about something with a burning desire to kick everything to bits and to quell my rage I shoved my hand in to the cold wet sand and dug down until about my whole arm was lost in the depths of the shore that clenched it. When I pulled it up it popped out from the suction and a small yellow-green crab had it’s pincers around my middle finger! I shrieked for the tiny life of me and waved my arm about frantically yelping and jumping about until the crustacean plopped off and scuttled back in to the sea. I ran back home no longer angry or crying but at peace with whatever had just gone on. The ash in the grate was cold as silt and smelt distinctly of nothing.

*

‘Hello. Big fat gross dead Mr. Turkey’ it sat there as a lump in shallow pools of watery-blood, ‘We’ll eat you tomorrow. Sleep well.’

*

When the door bell rings twice succinctly in two onerous rhymes that means Colin’s at the door, he is my hero and 90 years old and wears a fluorescent jacket that has Duck Patrol printed on the front breast pocket and Game Warden emblazoned on the back. It was a joke present from his longstanding friend but he wears it with pride and jauntily. Recently Colin took in Lily, an abused rescue-dog who hangs by his side enduringly and always looks so nervous of being hit again, what brutality can sear in to even animals’ brains I thought, and my hero’s bushy crown of white hair and weathered toothy-smile is what brings life to our laughter. 

‘Someone to come and see you’ Colin says nodding at Lily on the end of the leash, she turns her side to me and only dares to look up with twitchy eyes when she thinks I’m not looking (I am). ‘And to drop off this.’

‘An Orcadian dictionary, perfect. Thanks.’ I bend down to touch Lily but her leg wobbles and I just put my hand out for her to sniff.

‘Merry Christmas then!’ Says Colin as he saunters off with Lily tight by his side, and Granny tuts and murmurs to herself about it only being Christmas Eve. 

Don’t say ‘noo’, say ‘now’,  

Don’t say ‘ku’, say ‘cow’. 

(C. M. Costie, Speech)

The language of Orkney seems to have passed from the Norn to the Scots and then to the “correct way” of English, taught throughout the schools during 20th Century to standardise their spelling and speech. That’s fine I see it happening that way everywhere, I think, but it’s a shame. Now the dialect is known as Orcadian and to be honest when I speak with some I still miss half the conversation or the whole meaning. ‘Back of four’ means anytime after four o’clock and I find the logic sort of odd, just as I find it sort of odd how the sun rises and settles in one low position above the horizon for half an hour in the day before it starts to set again. Darkness is here by four.

*

‘Maybe after lunch you’d like to go beach combing together?’ asks Dad hopefully.

‘Only if we find treasure.’ I say non-plussed, stirring my tea with a hot spoon.

Wrapped up in layers of wax coats and fleece wearing a hat with a flap on both respective heads, the two stride up the drive, atop a cliff edge and down to the Playgroup Beach. Here, if you were to walk in to the sea and carry on straight you’d arrive in Norway, tells me my father, god know’s why we talk in as-the-bird-flies hyperbole. Totally unrealistic. I wanted to look for treasure, odd bits that fell off boats or deep-sea-shells that got thrown up by the swells but all I could see were thick mats of seaweed; layering sinews dripping wet and ripped up from the ocean bed, strewn across the sandy beach and now covered in little skippers (sand midges) eating away at the decaying water-fauna. Then lying there on the shore - I was drawn to it - a body like form. Corpulent; whale-ish in demeanour not size and not yet bloated, actually very calm and still like a sleeping policeman. 

One dead seal.

A big grey body and two little paw pads where the tail should be. I asked in that swallowed-shrill-cough I save for times of shock and persistent calm - 

‘Where’s the head?!’ It was severed clean off.

‘Probably cut off by a propeller of a boat. Nice and clean.’ There’s me looking at the dead thing in disbelief and he sees that and walks away.

‘What boat?’

‘Could have been your ferry. About the right timing.’

‘Hey, I was not involved in the murder of this sacred seal.’ I protest and I have an urge to get close up to it, it doesn’t smell yet and it’s fresh just headless, that’s all.

‘Don’t go near it. Sea-knits.’ Dad walks away and so do I. I don’t believe in sea-knits but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. 

‘Merry Christmas, dead Sacred Seal, I’ll pass on your regards to dead Mr. Turkey.’ Another year washes by.

The Funeral (Part 2)

I’m not superstitious in England, but here it seems unavoidable. The day after the end of the funeral I was woken up by some clattering on the tin roof nearby. That’s what raised my eyelids anyway. Clattering. Then two sharp crows from the crow who then quickly flew away. Ogiichan’s telling me to get up I thought, so I did, and went downstairs where my Obaachan was also stirring. I asked why she had got up and she said she remembered Ogiichan’s face laid down in the coffin and thought it was high time to get up. I said I heard a crow. She said she knew. Since the day Ogiichan passed away they’ve been frequent visitors to the house and garden, Obaachan says, ‘Until the 49^th day the tamashi of the person surrounds the house protecting it from evil.’

Tamashi means something like soul or spirit, the latter probably being the fuller translation. For when a person is alive people don’t refer to his or her tamashi, they refer to their soul or heart (kokoro) though. A tamashi is something intrinsically connected to the person, viscera or essence, yet it appears bodyless like a glowing circle of densely packed matter of soul. Japan’s a funny old world when it comes to superstition or religion or simply belief, so many elements are grounded in logic yet they make no sense. But when you hear the stories (that’s another story), it’s hard to not let their logic flow.

The second part of the funeral, after the ritual cleansing and chanting the night before was surprising to say the least. I had asked what to expect but nobody had told me in full detail, or even responded to my request so I was left in the dark about things until they happened.

We returned en masse to the undertaker-cum-hotel in the morning to greet all the guests. We sat in the room where the body of Ogiichan lay and gave incense again, and bowed regularly again, as the Buddhist Monk carried out his duties.

Lots of chanting lots of chiming lots of Om’s (Buddhism).

I was jealous of everyone with their beaded rosaries.

Then the coffin was brought to the forefront and opened fully so that the family and guests could say their personal goodbyes to Ogiichan, and we were all invited in and given handfuls of flowers to cover his body with.

Lilies, carnations, yellow cup tulips, white daisies, purple fuchsias...

Ogiichan was a man of flowers. One of his sayings was,

‘A man of flowers can do no harm’.

He also used to say to me - isn’t it ironic that the most beautiful things in the world like flowers are free? I’d agree.

The coffin was filled to the brim with flowers. Everything was covered apart from his face which was left to see out of the bed of petals. He looked at rest. The lid was closed and then the family processed out with Ogiichan following behind led by the Monk who rang a bell every so often. We were led in to cars and went on our way to the crematorium.

At the crematorium the Monk processed us in; a trail of relatives and guests followed subserviently behind us. Final looks in to the coffin were made and then Ogiichan was pushed in to what can only be described as a man-sized oven, a capsule hotel for the dead, and the doors were shut. We heard this loud hum, which began to sound more and more like a blaze and I knew that he was in flames. The Monk chanted more and we were led out.

Then we sat in a room with soft drinks and snacks for about an hour. I hadn’t put two and two together whilst I sat in that pallid room, but we were all essentially killing time for Ogiichan to burn up. Toast. I thought we were just hanging on until lunch or something. I felt pretty claustrophobic in that room so went out for some air, the people of the crematorium looked at me worriedly as I left the building through the entrance, not sure why. Maybe people don’t go out for “walks” at funerals here.

**

After an hour a uniformed woman came in to look in on our party. She announced,

‘It has been exactly one hour. We will need more time for yours but there is nothing to worry about, everyone is different.’

I thought fair enough, she means Ogiichan isn’t ready yet, which means he hasn’t fully burnt up. That’s when I realised why we had been placed in this horribly warm holding room. We were waiting for the dead. Don't worry we can wait.

‘Let me tell you some facts whilst you're waiting.’ The small uniformed lady began…

‘The myth of degenerate bones or diseased areas coming out of the kiln in different colours is a myth. The reason some of the bones will appear discoloured is due to the dye of the clothing they were burned in or the colouring of the flowers that were placed near or onto the skin before burning.’

All the old folks let out a sigh of awe and understanding. I had no idea what she was talking about.

‘The piece of bone that we call the “Adam’s Apple” is not solely found in men but also in women. Although we call it that, it is in fact referring to the top of the spinal cord. Both men and women have this and it also takes one of the longest times to burn. The actual “Adam’s Apple" is a piece of cartilage and will not remain after the fire.’

Another astonished awe of disbelief expelled by the congregation. Whatever I thought, let’s get on with this, whatever this is.

A tannoy speaker gently states, ‘Tanaka family we are ready.’ That’s my Japanese family name. So we all get up to go, the uniformed woman speaks to the elderly that now is the time to go to the toilet because there are no breaks in this part. We are told to line up as before, two by two, family spearheading the procession. This time though no Monk. We walk solemnly down a corridor and enter a beautifully stagnant room. We all wait. I have no idea what we are waiting for.

My mother, her sister, and my Obaachan (grandmother) are taken out of the room. We wait more. They are brought back in after long silent minutes. They look a bit sick actually. My aunt’s eyes are forever red.

Two sharp knocks on the waiting room door, which are slid open in classic Lynchian style, and then a shining tray of stainless steel is wheeled in.

On it are all of my Ogiichan’s bones.

Holy Shit.

In heaps.

And an urn and some chopsticks.

The bones are completely white.

They have been scorched at such a high temperature that they have turned in to calcite (my archaeological brain points out. Thanks brain). Then the procedure is explained to us by a little man in uniform wearing gloves and a clean blue blazer who presides over the rite.

Family first.

We have to go up to the tray, each command some chopsticks, and in pairs on either side of the tray lift a bone up out of the heap and then place it in to the urn.

When I pick up the bone and drop it into the ceramic it makes the noise of a pebble hitting a stony beach. Like in Orkney. I feel repulsed and sacred all at the same time.

Chopsticks to carry parts of my Ogiichan. What the fuck? When everyone else queued up to do the same I couldn't help laughing. The absurdity of it. All the neighbours and his brothers and sisters carrying a piece of his bone with chopsticks. Imagine doing it to a body in a church with knives and forks, it made me laugh. I supressed it as soon as it rose up though because I realised it was inappropriate. But it was funny. My brain couldn’t really fathom that Ogiichan had now become a pile of white dust and soon the little man in a blazer would sweep him up with a dustpan and brush to empty the last bits in to the urn. Clean and tidy.

The skull of Ogiichan had been kept separate until the end.

All the bones when placed in to the urn did not fit so the uniformed presider simply crushed the bones down with a stake. Pragmatic. When it came to the skull parts we were all asked to move close to the tray again and the man carefully placed the bones into life-corresponding positions in the urn. By that I mean, the Adam’s Apple the lady in uniform had been so vocal about was placed at the very front of the urn; then the mandibles and jaw of right and left placed respectively facing forwards; the ear bones behind them; and then different parts of the skull cranium laid out on top of the other bones.

Oh the duty. Oh the precision.

The man turns to my Obaachan for the final possessions. My Obaachan goes in to her bag and hands him my Ogiichan’s glasses and wristwatch. The glasses are opened up and placed carefully in the position they would sit on Ogiichan’s head, facing forwards, imagining where the eye sockets would be. And the watch is gently laid to the right of his skull because he was right-handed.

The lid is closed on the urn.

The urn is placed within a polonium-wood box that is closed.

The box is wrapped in a silken white cloth and tied impeccably.

The wrapped box is placed in an embroidered sheath made of purple and gold thread.

I am handed the box.

I carry the box of Ogiichan’s remains in to the car. He’s sat on my lap and we drive home. At home, I think he’s returned. I carry the box to the hachijou (reception room) and place him on a mantel. People make the mantel look right, with a candle, a bell, incense sticks, his photograph, a glass of fresh water to be changed daily, wooden blocks with worldly inscriptions. And that’s life, death that is.

**

This morning after the crow awoke me I went in to the room where Ogiichan’s box of remains were and opened all the shutters of the windows. My Obaachan lit the candle and incense and I did the same and gave a prayer. We both looked at him and my Obaachan said I should give him breakfast so I was like what do you give someone who’s dead for breakfast? And she replied toast because that’s what he ate when he was alive for breakfast. So I go and make some toast and put it on a plate and place it on the mantel. I look at it and laugh again, it’s all a bit surreal this transitionary phase isn’t it? We have to treat the thing that’s not there as if it’s still there, more for us Living than the actual Dead who no longer cares. Right? But something in me feels so much more settled knowing that Ogiichan was bathed and cleaned properly before going in to the kiln, that we all as a community placed his remains in to the box, which I carried home, for it to reside over the place he lived for over 60 years. This made more sense than any other way of grieving. The toast was a mere embellishment to it all.

When my aunt Mariko got up and came in to the living room she asks me timidly,

‘Urm, why is there toast on the scared mantel?’

‘It’s his breakfast’. I say, ‘Obaachan told me to give him breakfast.’

‘You don’t give The Spirit bread for food – you give him a bowl of fresh white rice.’

‘Ok. Well you take it up with Obaachan.’

‘How else do you think Ogiichan’s spirit will become the Buddha if it lives off stale bread?’

‘Like I say, ask Obaachan I don’t know.’

So Mariko goes off to explain to Obaachan the ins and outs of what the dead want for food, and I hear my Obaachan exclaim that she doesn’t think he needs fresh white rice and my aunt says of course he does because it's The Spirit, and then I begin to write this blog.

Honesty In A Post Break Up Scene (To Comic Effect)

CHARACTERS

MOTHER, a tiny woman with a delicate frame. A first generation immigrant who has not grasped the verbosity of the English language. Well-meaning and simple.

GIRL, a 25 year old female looking for a cause.

GRANDMOTHER, a gentle forgiving and tough old bird, aged 79.

FRIEND, a giver of sound advice. A strong souled worthy listener, aged 25.

SCENE 1 (DINING ROOM)

MOTHER: But he picked you up on the train. He asked for your number (then you gave). And now he leaves you, it’s good. It’s his decision.

GIRL: How is this good?

MOTHER: Because he made all the decisions. It is harder for him. He picked you and now he leaves you.

GIRL: Ok, you’ve made that clear. What about me though? I don’t feel good.

beat

MOTHER: You said you had nothing in common.

GIRL: (Yes) We were coming at things from different angles.

MOTHER: So you were not the same. He saved you from a lot of pain by cutting you now. And he left you so it is good. It was his decision.

GIRL: Right, thanks for clarifying.

MOTHER: He feels bad about you more. And you were not common.

SCENE 2 (BEDROOM)

Mobile phone rings (Lovesong riff by The Cure)

GRANDMOTHER: How are you darling? We haven’t heard from you in ages, is everything ok?

GIRL: (Hungover) Yes… sorry haven’t called… all fine.

GRANDMOTHER: Were you out late last night?

GIRL: No. I just got drunk at home in my bedroom.

GRANDMOTHER: Oh. With your housemates – Peter and Elizabeth is it?

GIRL: His name’s Elijah. No. I just drank wine on my own in my bed whilst watching illegal online films.

GRANDMOTHER: Illegal?!

GIRL: Don’t be concerned. Everyone does it though I’m not proud of it I just thought I should tell you.

GRANDMOTHER: Why were you watching bad films alone with wine?

GIRL: It was ‘Good Will Hunting’ and I was watching it because it’s supposed to be good.

GRANDMOTHER: Oh I see, I don't know these new films.

GIRL: And I was drinking wine alone at home because I didn’t really want to think about life.

GRANDMOTHER: Oh.

GIRL: Don’t be concerned I’m not feeling suicidal, I just felt really apathetic about it all and melancholic so I just wanted to drink until I had to fall asleep. You know?

GRANDMOTHER: No, I can't say I do know. Did anything happen to provoke…

GIRL: My boyfriend left me. Or, he wasn’t my boyfriend but something like that happened so I feel a little heartachey at the moment which is why I drank and now I have a hangover. Does that all make sense granny?

GRANDMOTHER: Yes dear. You’ll be alright. Youth is tough it’s a tough time out there.

SCENE 3 (PUB)

FRIEND: Have you been crying?

GIRL: No.

FRIEND: Are you sure you look like you’ve been crying. Is everything ok?

GIRL: I told you I’ve not been crying so why are you asking me that dickhead?

FRIEND: Because your eyes are all puffy and you’ve got make-up smudged around your face.

beat

GIRL: What if I were to tell you I’m not wearing any make-up.

FRIEND: That’s a lie.

GIRL: My eyes were itchy. And I just had a moment that’s all.

FRIEND: Allergy?

GIRL: From life maybe.

79

22:03. Oh, bollocks it’s too late to call now. It’s past ten.

Punch the numbers in to the phone screen (telephone receivers are of a bygone age), tap tap tap and then ring ring - I hope it’s not too late. I don’t want to wake them up on a Monday night…

Granny: Hello Burray 236?

Rimi: Happy Birthday Granny! Sorry it’s so late, I just forgot but I knew it was today, I meant to call earlier and I wanted to send you a card but I forgot - and I know I called yesterday, on Sunday, but I completely forgot it was your birthday today and I really I just wanted to really say happy birthday.

Granny: Oh thank you darling.

Rimi: Happy Birthday. Have you had a nice day - what did you do?

Granny: We went out for dinner

Rimi: Ooh that’s nice. Where did you go?

Granny: To the Sands Hotel.

Rimi: Lovely. What did you eat?

Granny: Well, for my main course I had lamb

Rimi: Lamb! That’s different.

Granny: I like lamb, but your Grancha doesn’t like lamb.

From off-side

Grancha: I do like lamb… (mumble mumble muffled words)

Chuckling

Granny: Did you hear that?

Rimi: No, not quite.

Granny: Grancha says he does like lambs but only when they’re in a field.

Rimi: That’s sweet

Granny: Not to eat.

Rimi: Yes, I got that.

Chuckles again (she has a nice chuckle, like a clucking hen)

Rimi: So how old are you?

Granny: Do you really want to know?

Rimi: Yes

Granny: Seventy-nine.

Rimi: Wow. That’s not a number you hear too often is it.

Granny: That’s right. I’m old old old!

Rimi: But you’ve still got the spirit!

Chuckling

Granny: Yes, I suppose I do.

Rimi: What did Grancha have for dinner?

Granny: What did Grancha have for dinner? What did you have for dinner…

From off-side

Grancha: I had… (mumble mumble muffled words)

Granny: Oh I remember! Grancha had scallops and some Orkney cheese.

Rimi: Yum

Granny: And for pudding he had... what did you have?

Long pause

Rimi: Granny?

Granny: My brain’s a bit tired so I’m trying to think

Rimi: Take your time

Silence

Granny: A white chocolate tear-drop!

Rimi: A white chocolate tear-drop?

Granny: Yes a white chocolate tear-drop. I’ll get him on the phone so he can tell you about it. He’s dozing off but I know he’d like to tell you himself.

Rimi: Ok

Granny: Bye for now –

Switched receivers (they still have receivers in Orkney)

Grancha: Hullo sweetie-pie

Rimi: Hello Grancha!

Grancha: Are you well?

Rimi: Yes thanks. Tell me about your truffle.

Grancha: My what?

Rimi: Your truffle; the pudding you had at the Sands.

Grancha: Well it wasn’t a truffle

From off-side

Granny: It was like a… (mumble mumble higher pitched muffled sounds)

Grancha: Ooh, my white chocolate tear-drop.

Rimi: Yes, tell me about that.

Grancha: Well it was quite difficult to eat actually.

Rimi: How so?

Grancha: Couldn’t break easily through the shell. Was like trying to eat an egg with a small spoon – a hard boiled egg. I’ll pass you back to Granny now.

Rmi: Ok.

Grancha: Love you lots

Rimi: Love you too Grancha, sleep well.

Switched receivers

Granny: Well thank you for calling my dear, it’s really rounded off the day splendid.

Rimi: I love you Granny.

Granny: I love you too. Now good luck moving off the boat, I think you’ve probably stayed on the boat long enough now. It must be getting cold on the river?

Rimi: It is. Autumn’s setting in.

Granny: Time to find a new home but you know you can always come back here whenever you want. We’ll be waiting for you.

Rimi: I know. Love you. Good night. And happy birthday.

Click goes the sound of their receiver and I can hear the ducks quacking up at the moon outside. It’s probably time to go ashore.