This morning, I scrubbed away a decade’s worth of grot from under and behind our fridge-freezer. I know it’s been building up for at least ten years because, amongst the debris, I found a letter from my granny, dated December, 2006.
Before you judge me for my slovenly ways, let me tell you more about my granny’s letter. She’d written to me in response to a verse from a poem I’d sent to her:
‘Cleaning and scrubbing can wait ’til tomorrow
For babies grow up we’ve learned to our sorrow,
So quiet down cobwebs and dust go to sleep
I’m rocking my baby, and babies don’t keep.’
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