When I get old I will have whiskers and smell of cheap scent.
I will invites relatives to tea in a gloomy sitting room and drink cheap, sweet sherry from a china cup.
I will take it surreptitiously from a bottle kept in a large knitting bag by my chair.
No one attending the Tea will know if I am eccentric or drunk.
Little child relatives will be brought to Tea all scrubbed and the boys will have their hair slicked down with water.
I will insist on it.
They will have to sit quietly on the sofa and I will address them in a high pitched querulous voice as: “That boy” or “that girl”.
They’ll swing their legs and make their parents nervous because the room will be full of knick knacks that look valuable.
I will insist on telling long stories about where they all came from and will frown at crumbs dropped on the carpet.
I will have a sporty little red car and will drive down the centre lane of the M8 at 30 miles an hour playing the Pogues and Home Service 70s folk rock at full blast.
Especially the track that goes: “I Know I’m Never Gonna’ Be a Cowboy Now.”
When policemen who are too young to have left school pull me over and offer to drive the car home, I will say “What!” very loudly and often because I will be very deaf.
When I am 99 and ½ I’ll die and people will gather round my relatives and say things like:
“Eeee! She were a rum ‘un, your Auntie.”
Then, when they go to pack up my life, they will find that all the knick knacks have ‘A present from Blackpool’ on them and the insurance was spent years ago.
They will find empty bottles of eccentricity in little nests all over the house, and will have to ferry them to the tip in ones and twos so the neighbours don’t find out that I was a bad old bat and a lush to boot.
(Source unknown but I like it!)