My mother’s mother was coming to visit us in our wee flat in 9 Hydepark Street.
I was afraid of her. She seemed too fierce to be a granny.
But I’d learned to make tea.
So Mum decided, I should make Granny’s tea when she arrived.
To impress her.
So Granny Balfour arrived, and settled herself in her favourite chair in our house. I politely asked her if she took milk and sugar, and made a mental note of her answers.
I poured tea from the teapot into a cup, then added the sugar and milk, as requested.
Finally, I very carefully carried the cuppa over to Granny and set it down before her.
‘That’s not making tea, that’s pouring tea,’ said Granny.
‘He’s not allowed to pour from the kettle yet,’ explained Mum.
I nodded a Granny. She ignored me.
‘It’s not the same, just pouring tea. It’s not making tea.’ Granny was sticking to her guns.
The argument batted back and forth between Mum and Granny. They really irked each other.
My heart sank.
I hadn’t impressed Granny at all. And now she was arguing with my mum.
I felt, even as a very small boy, that Granny was just, just a tiny bit, ungrateful.
I decided, right there and then, to never, ever, ever make Granny a cup of tea for the rest of my life.
And do you know what?
I never did.