Dig the Slowness

Every other Tuesday after school, Mum makes me visit Sunshine Retirement Home to see Granny. Don't get me wrong, I love my grandma, but she asks me the same questions every week and doesn't do much with her time, so it's not like I have anything cool to ask her. She also doesn't understand anything invented after the eighties, so streaming services completely fry her brain, and so does anything beyond that, so it is all pretty worthless to bring up.There are two things that we talk about at length. One, is how horse riding is going, which is comedic as I haven't ridden a horse since I stopped my lessons at the age of eight, but I go along with it anyway and tell her that my horse, Nigel, is doing well, and that I am the best in my class at dressage. Sometimes, I make things up to create a bit of excitement. You could call it lying, but we end up having partially entertaining conversations, so it is more like improv. Last week, I told her I was being cast as the next Harry Potter for an upcoming remake. She told me I wouldn't get the role because I'm too chubby, which is hilariously offensive considering there are many reasons that I wouldn’t get the role that she could have bought up before calling me chubby, but whatever. Our other exciting talking point is my fashion sense. Gran used to be a designer, she still dyes her hair a dark brown and wears wedges all day while she sits in her floral armchair, so my mostly black, oversized wardrobe is the greatest tragedy of her golden years.

"Whose funeral are you going to this week?" she asks the second I sit down on the crinkly hospital-style bed, the sheets rustling like there's a half-eaten bag of Doritos hidden under them. Maybe there is.

"Nobody has died yet," I mumble. "How has your week been?" I divert the conversation before I have to explain why it's 'cool' for my knitted jumper to have holes in it. 

"It's been dull, my dear. Honestly, at this point, you may as well just throw me down the stairs."

"Brilliant." I respond. 

Mum walks into the room with a box of Guylian chocolates. Thank God, I receive a treat for this painful visit.

"Hi, Mum, how are you?" she says.

"Are those chocolates for me?" Gran responds.

"They are from cousin Becky, as a 'get well soon' gift since she found out you have shingles."

"Oh, for god sake", Gran wriggles in her chair. "Does she not know that people over seventy never get better; they only get worse? It's almost rude."

"Jesus Christ, mum." Mum sits on the bed beside me and puts the box of chocolates on the coffee table. 

I glare at them, thinking about the soft truffle-like chocolate inside of those weird little sea creatures. 

When I realise that nobody else is interested in the chocolates, I avert my eyes and examine the room instead. How do they manage to make every retirement home look like a retirement home? Seriously, what is with the sixties interior? I have never seen an orange carpet anywhere else. Although, Grans splashes of decor remind me that she lived through the time of flower power. I divert my attention to the smell of the room, and wonder why literally every old person smells the same—like a mix of rose-scented hand soap and pee. 

Oliver, my brother, never comes to see Granny. He moved to London last year to focus on computer science. We try not to talk about it much because Granny thinks it is ridiculous that we don't just use pen and paper. 

"We did just fine without it!" She boasts as Mum explains for the millionth time, that it is actually a really good job. 

"Does he have a girlfriend yet?" Granny abruptly changes the subject.

"You have met Oliver's boyfriend multiple times," Mum sighs. 

"Oh, don't be stupid; they are just close friends."

That is my queue. 

"I'm going to the bathroom." I say as I get up and make my way to the door. 

Nerves flutter through me; I hate being in medical settings. I know this isn't a hospital, but it has that same musty smell. 

I walk through the corridor, sneakily peeking through doorways into different peoples' rooms as I go. Every single one looks the same: a comfortable chair facing an old, boxy TV. I get to the lobby and see signs for the week's timetable: morning knitting, Crochet competition, film night, and lunchtime bingo. My God. Imagine not only being imprisoned but also being forced to socialise with other elderly people. The conversations must be dire.

As I reach the toilets, I spot the stick figure with a dress on the door and pull the handle.

It rattles.

I look down to see the engaged sign peering up at me. 

I take a few steps back and lean against the wall. 

Now, I have to awkwardly stand here and wait for the person to walk out and see me. Knowing that, instead of looking at the sign, I tried to barrel in on them with their pants around their knees. 

The door opens, and I flash a tight smile. 

"Thanks!" a boy wanders out. His ruffled, black hair disguises his eyes, but a grin beams at me instead. 

I take a double look at the door. There's definitely a skirt on that stick figure… Did he know that this was the girl's bathroom? 

"You were in the ladies," I blurt out.

He looks up, and swishes his hair to the side, so I can see his eyebrows lifting. "Oh."

We stand there in silence. He doesn't explain. He doesn't even look embarrassed. He just waits, like I'm the one who needs to explain myself.

I clear my throat. "You know… the little stick figure has a dress." I make a vague swishing motion with my hands as if that will help.

He glances back at the door, then back at me. "Huh. Yeah, I guess it does."

Another beat of silence.

"So… did you know?" 

He grins. "Yeah."

"Oh." I stare at him, unsure of what to do with this information. "Right."

He shoves his hands in his pockets. "You gonna report me?"

I narrow my eyes. "Maybe."

He gasps dramatically. "Arrest me officer!" Then, without another word, he turns and strolls down the hallway, completely unfazed.

Do I not understand socialising?

I quickly decide that I do not, so instead of worrying about it further, I just turn on my heel and march into the toilet.

Of all the public toilets I visit, I appreciate this one because of its extra space. I check my outfit and pick at my face in the mirror before I close the lid of the toilet and sit on my phone, an uninterrupted break. With no public Wi-Fi in this ancient building, I flick through my photos for a few minutes before I wonder if talking to Grandma about how Netflix works might be more entertaining. 

I plod back through the lobby, the smell of tomato soup filling the halls. It must almost be the old people's dinner time, which is around five o'clock. I bet they are forced into bed soon after.

As I turn the corner back into Gran’s room, she seems more irate than normal, which is really bad for her blood pressure. 

"Before anyone could even come to help, he was gone!" She shouts. 

"Gosh, that's awful." Mum sits forward, her eyebrows furrowed over her big doe eyes.

"What's awful?" I ask as I pat the bed, double-checking that there isn't anything under there before I sit back down. 

Mum goes to speak, but Granny instantly interjects, "Barb was mugged at the corner shop yesterday morning!" She grips the arm of her chair as she leans towards me. "What is happening to this new generation?" she yells, as if I am the spokesperson for today's youth. 

She finally sits back in her chair and stares at the TV. 

"Is Barb okay?" I ask. 

"She's petrified! Gran rolls her eyes. "When is someone going to do something about it! Old people are too weak to be victimised, we need protection!" 

"Yes, I agr-" Gran cuts me off. 

"This is rubbish. There is nothing good on TV anymore. Who thinks old people like house hunting?" She moans.

"Right." Mum slaps her thighs and promptly gets up. "We had better go and start dinner." 

Granny grabs the remote and waves it in our general direction. "Please find me something decent to watch before you go." 

Mum flicks through the channels and finally settles on Antiques Roadshow. 

"See you next week, Gran." 

"See you," She mumbles back.

To be continued...