Denial. More than just a river

Many years ago, Grandma and Grandad retired to a big pretty house in the country in a tiny village in a secluded valley with a medieval church and a lot of cows etc. They've been there nearly 25 years and were slowing up, so a couple of years ago they did the estate agents' thing and viewed a few likely re-retirement properties. But none were quite what they wanted, because what they wanted was what they already had, so they said tell you what, we'll stay here until we're forced to go by bad health or similar, then we'll move. Then Grandma had a stroke, and she's still in hospital because she can't stand up or anything. Grandad is amazed that he hasn't poisoned himself because he never learned to cook so has to glean earthworms from the garden and pick his own apples. But this has not put them off. Everything is going just fine, apparently, and in no time she'll drive herself home down the 3½ miles of dirt track that separate them from the nearest town and resume her domestic duties just in time to sow the spring vegetables. This is why they still have the grand piano, 2 cars and roomfuls of books, because she is coming home, so why empty the house in preparation for a move? When accused of being in stubborn denial of reality and their change in circumstances, he cheerfully admits it and says funny you should say that, everyone else keeps telling us that, too. Are any other PuddleGrandparents this good at the ostrich position?

I've got all this to look forward to with Bud and Jof, haven't I? When I'm a busy 40-something cult leader, Nobel prize winner and UN Secretary-General, it'll be all "Nothing wrong with us, dear, we've still got 1 good leg, 3 teeth and a kidney between us, ooo that reminds me, can you untangle my saline drip and get me my sports truss as I want to re-tile the roof this year.....".

==========================================

After school we did spelling and comprehension until it was time to go back for parents' evening. I played with Lucy and Rohit while he got the double-barrelled Spanish inquisition in which he was informed that I'm really good at everything except reading. This is because it takes too long and I could be doing something more interesting like Lego Heroes or gorming out in front of Mickey Mouse. While he waited for his scheduled turn on the rack, we looked at the rockets my class had made from the industrial clingfilm tubes from his work.

Mine is the sleek metallic model of Teutonic engineering efficiency with the finely crafted flanges with tolerances in the Angstrom range. It is mid-right at the bottom, beneath the garish orange coelecanth and the mouldy bogroll. It most certainly does not have a smarties wrapper or xmas tree tinsel. It is the only one that looks like it could actually achieve a stable orbit around Titan.
At Beavers I won some wine gums and my Road Crossing Safety badge. While this does not mean I shall be walking to school on my own for another few months at least, it is my first earned badge.

I also did other safety training including a "Dangers in the Bedroom" test, a printout of an online learning tool. Thus whenever I clicked and held down my pencil on a suspected risk item, it did not show me any ALT text. It looks like the poor girl won't reach her next birthday, so can I have her stack of Hi-Fi separates, please? And not only but also, I was asked to mentor a small new-starter Beaver.