The Prince of Orange

I popped in on Don Mary yesterday. Once my eyes had adjusted to the dark I was pleased to see she'd opened the windows (slightly) and didn't even have the heater going. She was, however, decked out in a thick, woollen jumper.

She'd had vertigo the day before. This had prevented her from heading down to the Ponderosa to partake in Bezley's scones with jam & cream. You know things are serious when a person can't struggle out of their sick bed for a taste of Bezley's scones (Grumpy and I were on hand, fortunately, to take up the old girl's slack). I inquired after her health. What had caused the vertigo, did she think? "Well, I'm pretty sure I got some sorbolene in my eyes yesterday." You'll forgive me when I tell you I didn't ask for a scientific explanation as to how a bit of cream in the eyes caused vomitous, dizzying vertigo.

But this is my grandmother all over. She swears by yeast. Yeast will cure everything. Though I don't think it will cure what's happening to Bloody Ern right now, and I note she hasn't suggested he take any. I think that's called good taste. And her yeast theory seems to hold water: then she'll go and undermine it all by claiming that sorbolene causes vertigo.

Mind you, she also refused to pat the cat after finding out he had feline AIDS, lest the virus be sitting on his glossy coat and transfer itself on to her hands. Old Ginge got his revenge though: one evening Don Mary was taking her time getting his dinner so he jumped up and sank his fangs into her thigh. She ran around the house screaming and babbling something about a serpent's tooth. And ever after, you could set your watch by Ginge's supper time.