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Dancing Gran

Hugh Cartwright

    Gran seems lost in her past. She stares vacantly at the heavy curtains that prevent the outside world from slipping into her care home.
    I’m afraid that she’s beginning to lose her grip on reality.
    “What are you thinking of, gran?” I ask, trying to bring her back to the present.
    “My Pole Dancing” she announces unexpectedly.
    This doesn’t sound good. I put my arm around her slender shoulders and give her a hug.
    “I had a wonderful time as a young lass, drifting from one club to another.”
    Gran’s so old. Did clubs even have poles back then? And pole dancers? And did my gran really do all those gyrations...? It’s impossible to imagine.
     She turns and looks hard at me. “Why the sceptical look?” she asks. “Do you need to see proof of my dancing?”
    Embarrassed, I nod to keep her happy, but I’m worried now about what I’ve let myself in for. She pulls photos from an album, laying them out on her lap, one by one.
    She was very beautiful. Slim, lithe, golden-haired, immaculately (and fully) dressed.
    In a couple of the photos, she’s hand in hand with a tall man.
    “Who’s the handsome admirer?” I ask.
    “That’s Jakub. He’s Polish of course. My Pole Dancer. You ought to listen.”
    She gives me a cheeky grin and a coquettish kiss. I needn’t worry. Gran is as sharp as ever.
    



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