There’d been some gossip on the street – Gran wasn’t coping. I popped in regularly, we all did: I hadn’t noticed that she was declining. She still got out, did good works, and was inclined to talk about ‘helping out the old dears’ – those who couldn’t still walk to the shops.
I finally spotted it. The undrunk cups of tea. No doubt she usually cleared them away, but the homehelp had noticed that the cups being made weren’t getting drunk, and had talked. I don’t suppose she’d ever thought to ask Gran what tea she wanted.
“Hippie tea Gran?”
“Ooh! Lovely!”
(100 words)
© David Jesson, 2017
Fiction Can Be Fun 