At the risk of ruining my carefully cultivated reputation of being a cynical shit who exudes about as much warmth as a brick in a freezer, I love my Nanny. She’s the matriarchal glue that holds the funny looking bits of our family together in all its dysfunctional glory. Without her, I doubt the rest of us would have much to do with each other. At any rate, we’d almost certainly have to give up our lifelong passive smoking habit. Anyway, Nanny’s great. Here are some reasons why:
- Upon taking me in as a wayward 16 year old, the price was set for my lodgement at $30 per week. Apart from the fact that that amount wouldn’t even begin to cover my hot water consumption alone (and I’m proud to say my habit for unbelievably lengthy showers is still alive and well, hallelujah), she would then give three dollars back to me every day for my school lunch. Any effort to deny this generosity was met with her adamant refusal. "What about the lunches? I always cut the lunches."
- Rules of lodgement: "I’ll do your washin’, and you can do the ironin’. I’ve always done the washin’. Matter of fact, I’ve always done everyone’s washin’." Of course, she then proceeds to do the washin’ and the ironin’, much to my chagrin as a 16 year old try-hard grunge wannabe who certainly did NOT want her oversized clothes ironed. Washing them was dorky enough.
- When I think of Nanny, I picture her kicking back in her recliner, engulfed in a cloud of cigarette smoke, in her favourite fuchsia leisure suit with matching fuchsia lipstick, with the fire going in the middle of summer, ranting about the Government, or dole bludgers, or what the Government aren’t doing about dole bludgers, or the price of any of the following: food, petrol, electricity, telephone, rates, water, registration, cat food, cigarettes, Austar, and… well… pretty much everything, really.
- She constantly has "one foot in the grave and one foot on a banana skin" – a precarious position indeed, but one she has claimed to be in for as long as I can remember
- I can hear her now, lamenting the demise of Wheel of Fortune, especially in its glory days. Apparently, Baby John Burgess was irreplaceable. (Personally, I’ve never seen anyone with quite the same inability to separate his head movements from the rest of his body. He reminds me of a paper puppet glued to a Paddle Pop stick). But never fear – whenever she pines for Wheel of Fortune, she can simply whip out one of the many episodes she still has on tape. I doubt that the solutions to the puzzles are all that surprising to her by now, but it’s the memories, gosh darn it.
- If she ever tires of the Wheel of Fortune tapes, there’s always the Deal or No Deal tapes to fall back on
- If you ask her how she is, you’d better make a cup of tea and have a seat – you’re in for a forty five minute health report, complete with gory details about seeping sores and runny eyes. And she’s always got "that damned cough again". It’s the dairy, you know. Nothing to do with the aforementioned cloud of cigarette smoke. No – it’s definitely the dairy. Come to think of it, the wad of butter that tends to accompany pretty much all five food groups would probably affect anyone’s health.
- The runny eye issue eventually led to an appointment at the hospital to have a cataract removed. After a hearty lunch, she turned up at the hospital, only to be told that she wasn’t supposed to have eaten anything. "No", argued Nanny, "They crossed that bit out in the letter – see, look!" She pulled the letter out from her bag. Upon closer inspection, someone pointed out that the part of the letter she was referring to was actually highlighted. Well! Nanny had never heard of a highlighter, had she! Evidently, if it’s not a pencil (for crosswords) or a bingo marker, it doesn’t rate a mention.
- Only Nanny could get lost in Westbury. With Daph and Elaine on the way back from the casino. I mean, Westbury…
- My brother suggested she program Consumer Affairs into the speed dial on her phone, rather than wearing out those particular numbers from repeated use.
- When asked if there are any plans for the next Christmas together, she always cheerfully replies, "Oh, I’ll be dead by then!"
- She refuses to get a CD player. She doesn’t need "one of those new fangled things"
- Anything that takes more than a passing thought is too much effort. She just "can’t be bothered". Yet she’ll be out of the recliner like a rocket if someone’s outside the house doing a U-turn in the cul-de-sac. Old people are so nosy.
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