“So what’s her name?” asks the cute little old lady sitting next to the bed of my temporarily paralysed friend who I’m visiting in Hospihotel.
“Raeden.” I reply, speaking well up because the hearing starts to go and this old dear has purple rinse and her lipstick has spread. Her eyeshadow is as blue as the sky and painted nearly as high.
“Ah,” she says with a pause that I’ve come to expect as the Eldest has had her name since she was 5 months in utero.
“Raisin.” says the wizened one, clearly I did not project and enunciate perfectly, ” that’s a lovely name.” Bless her, coming from a generation of Ethels and Mavisses that must be quite a developmental leap to be hip enough to accept ‘Raisin’ as a name for a person. Not surprising though, she did have a You on her nightstand, a place where one is most likely to come into contact with the Apples, Peaches and Heavenly Hirani Tigerlilys of the World as It Is Portrayed To Us.
“Yes,” I sigh, “She’s sweet and wrinkly just like you” – seems sarcasm doesn’t translate super well over the Generation Gaps because the very classy and not in anyway offended darling sweet old thing just nodded knowingly and smiled through the powder and the paint.