Grandad’s Armchair

Strange smelling, mustard brown moth-eaten chair, where Grandad sat on a Sunday afternoon after lamb with all the trimmings.

Like a heaving ancient giant, with his mouth ready to catch flies and glasses knocked to one side, he snores and wheezes, his tongue sissing like a snake.

With a choo choo train I fly around and scream and crash and wallop into everything; as Action Man punches the Lego train station and Dr X sings a Ring-a Ring o’ Roses, when a hush from my mother reminds me that Grandad’s sleeping in his throne.

A steady snore, a brief opening of the eyes and a little smile, you raise your head and then your arms and beckon me. A kiss for your grandson in the bright Sunday sun, adorned in your arms, tis a shame that you’re gone.