Now lookee here, girl, what do you call that mess on the
wall?
Dunno.
It’s a
scribble, isn’t it? And a scribble don’t belong on the wall, it belongs on paper.
Am I right or am I wrong?
Yep, s’pose
so.
Right or
wrong I asked, girl.
Right.
Right,
thank you.
Granddad
Pete was always shooting off about something and his granddaughter, Sophie, was
normally in his firing line. She peered out from her lofty vantage point and endured
it all with the cold stare of teenage oblivion.
You doing
anything later, girl?
Dunno.
What about
playing a sport. Tennis? Table tennis? Football?
Table
football?
Don’t get
fresh now, Sophie. But table football would be a start, wouldn’t it?
Yeah.
Go on then,
here’s a pound. And a smile would be nice.
Sophie
managed a smile, pecked her Granddad lightly on the cheek, and slouched off.
You will
use the money for a game, won’t you?
Sophie
mimed the bent over flick wrist motion of the game as she walked away.
Fat chance thought granddad,
but she’d be good if she did play; the girl has attitude.
