Since Friday I've been staying with my grandmother, the English one. Before this summer I hadn't seen her in about six years, thanks to my galavanting around Ireland and the US, so it's nice to have the chance to catch up with her in her dust-free, granny-pad, drinking pots of tea and talking about all the weird ad whacky things on tv.
The weekend has been lovely; the sun is shining, my bed is unbelievably comfortable and I've even managed to hijack the wireless from the people next door, so I can write on my blog. The house is such a grandma house; as I type, there are little porcelain statuettes and collector plates staring at me from the mantelpiece while china dogs look dolefully out across the photo populated/tea-collection-storing cabinet set and the abundance of cushions and sofas that litter the living room. There are spindly little tables that don't seem to have a purpose, and a gargantuan tv with approximately seven billion channels.
This all sounds ideal, right? But there is a problem, I am on death's door.
The reason? My grandmother likes to feed me.
That's a good thing, I know. I'm also aware that it's a little bit silly to be complaining about being fed, but the sheer amount of food is awe inspiring.
It's a bit of a joke that I don't eat or sleep that much, and that I'm a bit pale and skinny. Now I'm staying in the 'land of perpetual sun' for a short time, I'm red and skinny. Enter the grandmother. If there's a lull in the conversation, or if the tv goes to commercials, inevitably the question will come, "do you want something to eat?".
Usually I try to say no as politely as possible, but today I thought I'd be a bit daring and call her bluff. So whenever any food was offered I accepted, like a culinary 'Yes Man'. Big mistake.
Between 2 and 9pm I had the following
1 - Bacon sandwich and tea.
2 - Another bacon sandwich and tea.
3 - Cheese roll with bottle of beer.
4 - Cup of tea and scone (and some biscuits)
4 - Several bottles of beer.
5 - Steak and Kidney Pie, with peas, roast potatoes, carrots, cauliflowers, gravy and bread.
6 - Bread and butter and tea.
7 - Several more bottles of beer.
Now, I'm absolutely stuffed to the gills. I feel like my weird innie/outie bellybutton is going to turn into an outie. As I sit hear watching 'Doc Martin' on television, I'm getting foodsweats and my feet are numb. That is scary, but I'm still drinking the beer.
My gran just offered me some pilchards on toast, I'm fucked.