Granny Flats Quotes

The ancient little dressmaker was at all times willing to talk of Old Grannis to anybody that would listen, quite unconscious of the gossip of the flat.

That anonymous coward is probably forty years old with raging BO and still living in his mum’s granny flat

And in an apartment on the other side of town, everyone wakes up with a start when the hound in the first-floor flat, without any warning, starts howling. Louder and more heartrendingly than anything they have ever heard coming out of the primal depths of any animal. As if it is singing with the sorrow and yearning of an eternity of ten thousand fairy tales. It howls for hours, all through the night, until dawn. And when the morning light seeps into the hospital room, Elsa wakes up in Granny's arms. But Granny is still in Miamas.

Quite an affair had arisen from this circumstance. Miss Baker and Old Grannis were both over sixty, and yet it was current talk amongst the lodgers of the flat that the two were in love with each other. Singularly enough, they were not even acquaintances; never a word had passed between them.

The moment we walk into the suite, Tommy descends on us. “The Queen’s on the line. On Skype, Your Grace.” Anxiety rings in his voice like the ping of a tapped crystal glass. “She’s been waiting. She does’na like to be kept waiting.” I nod briskly. “Have David bring me a scotch.” “Oh, me too!” Henry pipes up. “He’ll have coffee,” I tell Tommy. And I think Henry sticks his tongue out at me behind my back. I head into the library and he follows, seeming marginally closer to sober—at least he’s walking straight and unassisted now. I sit behind the desk and open the laptop. On the screen, my grandmother looks back at me, wearing a pale pink robe, hair in rollers and a hairnet, gray eyes piercing, her expression as friendly as the grim reaper’s. This should be fun. “Nicholas.” She greets me without emotion. “Grandmother,” I return, just as flat. “Granny!” Henry calls, like a child, coming around the desk into view. Then he proceeds to hug the computer and kiss the screen. “Mwah! Mwah!” “Henry, oh, Hen—” My grandmother swats the air with her hands, like he’s actually there kissing her. And I do my damnedest not to laugh at them. “Mwah!” “Henry! Remember yourself! My gracious!” “Mmmmmwah!” He perches, grinning like a fool, on the arm of my chair, forcing me to shift over. “I’m sorry, Grandmother—it’s just so good to see you

Granny flats are misnamed. They were once intended for older relatives, so they can live near their adult children and grandchildren. Hence the appellation. Down in the lowlands of Boomertown, there are many such little residences. But they’re not for grannies. Instead, the buildings should be called ‘children and grandchildren emergency shelters’ because that’s what they’ve become. Whole families cram themselves into a few dozen square metres of space and meanwhile, the grandparents stay in the big main house, rattling around their many empty rooms like rubber balls in a vast squash court.

As the car disappeared down the road, old Granny Frinda lay crumpled on the red dirt calling for her granddaughters and cursing the people responsible for their abduction. In their grief the women asked why their children should be taken from them. Their anguished cries echoed across the flats, carried by the wind. But no one listened to them, no one heard them.

People threw their elderly relatives into the snow and granny flats became dining rooms, while they tied up miniature vegetables and sprayed raspberry vinegar like tomcats on the pull.

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He leaned forward to get a closer look and received an instant rebuke from a nearby woman. “Otstupit,” she said firmly. Paris turned to Mother and whispered, “Did she just call me stupid?” “Otstupit,” he said. “It means ‘back away.’ She’s the guard.” Paris raised an eyebrow because she didn’t look like a guard. She was in her midsixties and barely five feet tall. She had gray hair, sensible shoes, and wore a sweater over a long-sleeved shirt, even though it was the middle of summer. “Really?” he asked. “It’s tradition in Russian art museums,” Mother answered. “Rather than imposing guards in uniforms they have…” “What? Grannies in cardigans?” “Pretty much,” Mother said with a smirk. “But don’t be fooled. She’s probably ex-KGB. If you get too close to the art, she’ll go from babushka to ninja in no time flat.

I think about the Old Ones, that they have a past but no history. I think about the inevitability of death, and whether it’s not that very inevitability that inspires us to take photographs and make scrapbooks and tell stories. That that’s how we humans find our way to immortality. This is not a new thought; I’ve had such thoughts before. But I have a new thought now. That that’s how we find our way toward meaning. Meaning. If you’re going to die, you want to find meaning in life. You want to connect the dots. The Old Ones are born immortal. They’ve lived hundreds upon hundreds of years. But they’re going to die. Someday soon—in five days, or five months, or five years—we humans will come up with a cure for the swamp cough. Then Mr. Clayborne will light the illuminating gas and set the machines going and drain the water from the swamp. I look about the Flats, I try to imagine it. Men will dig up the ancient trees. They’ll shrivel the Flats into a toothless granny. They’ll drain the swamp into a scab. The Old Ones will have nowhere to live. And if that doesn’t kill them, industry will. The factories and hospitals and shipyards that are sure to come. The Old Ones can’t survive a world filled with metal. They can’t survive the clatter and growl of machinery. I leave the Flats. The fields are not too far now. Just down the road. But the road looks long and I feel the prickle of tears again. It’s because I’ve been ill, I know. That’s all it is. And when the bog-holes are puckered shut, where will the Boggy Mun go? Will he go to the sea? And if he does, what then? Is the sea too big to drain? Probably not. Look what mankind can create. Now you can photograph a person moving, and when you look at the photograph, you’ll actually see him moving, which is why it’s called a moving picture. This is hard to believe, I know, but still, we humans are inventing such astonishing things. I shouldn’t be surprised if, in time, we’ll be able to drain the sea. And what of the Old Ones? Only the stories will remain

The three of us were wearing flat caps, green jackets, plus fours, as if we played for the same sports team. (In a way, I suppose, we did.) Pa, driving us out into the fields, asked about Meg. Not with great interest, just casually. Still, he didn’t always ask, so I was pleased. She’s good, thanks. Does she want to carry on working? Say again? Does she want to keep on acting? Oh. I mean, I don’t know, I wouldn’t think so. I expect she’ll want to be with me, doing the job, you know, which would rule out Suits…since they film in…Toronto. Hmm. I see. Well, darling boy, you know there’s not enough money to go around. I stared. What was he banging on about? He explained. Or tried to. I can’t pay for anyone else. I’m already having to pay for your brother and Catherine. I flinched. Something about his use of the name Catherine. I remembered the time he and Camilla wanted Kate to change the spelling of her name, because there were already two royal cyphers with a C and a crown above: Charles and Camilla. It would be too confusing to have another. Make it Katherine with a K, they suggested. I wondered now what came of that suggestion. I turned to Willy, gave him a look that said: You listening to this? His face was blank. Pa didn’t financially support Willy and me, and our families, out of any largesse. That was his job. That was the whole deal. We agreed to serve the monarch, go wherever we were sent, do whatever we were told, surrender our autonomy, keep our hands and feet inside the gilded cage at all times, and in exchange the keepers of the cage agreed to feed and clothe us. Was Pa, with all his millions from the hugely lucrative Duchy of Cornwall, trying to say that our captivity was starting to cost him a bit too much? Besides which—how much could it possibly cost to house and feed Meg? I wanted to say, She doesn’t eat much, you know! And I’ll ask her to make her own clothes, if you like. It was suddenly clear to me that this wasn’t about money. Pa might have dreaded the rising cost of maintaining us, but what he really couldn’t stomach was someone new dominating the monarchy, grabbing the limelight, someone shiny and new coming in and overshadowing him. And Camilla. He’d lived through that before, and had no interest in living through it again. I couldn’t deal with any of that right now. I had no time for petty jealousies and Palace intrigue. I was still trying to work out exactly what to say to Granny, and the time had come.

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One Day Eight Years Ago - Poem by Jibanananda Das It was heard: to the post-mortem cell he had been taken; last night—in the darkness of Falgoon-night When the five-night-old moon went down— he was longing for death. His wife lay beside—the child therewith; hope and love abundant__in the moonlight—what ghost did he see? Why his sleep broke? Or having no sleep at all since long—he now has fallen asleep in the post-mortem cell. Is this the sleep he’d longed for! Like a plagued rat, mouth filled with crimson froth now asleep in the nook of darkness; And will not ever awake anymore. ‘Never again will wake up, never again will bear the endless—endless burden of painful waking—’ It was told to him when the moon sank down—in the strange darkness by a silence like the neck of a camel that might have shown up at his window side. Nevertheless, the owl stays wide awake; The rotten still frog begs two more moments in the hope for another dawn in conceivable warmth. We feel in the deep tracelessness of flocking darkness The unforgiving enmity of the mosquito-net all around; The mosquito loves the stream of life awake in its monastery of darkness. From sitting in blood and filth, flies fly back into the sun; How often we watched moths and flies hovering in the waves of golden sun. The close-knit sky, as if—as it were, some scattered lives, possessed their hearts; The wavering dragonflies in the grasp of wanton kids Fought for life; As the moon went down, in the impending gloom With a noose in hand you approached the aswattha, alone, by yourself, For you’d learnt a human would ne’er live the life of a locust or a robin The branch of aswattha Had it not raged in protest? And the flock of fireflies Hadn’t they come and mingled with the comely bunch of daffodils? Hadn’t the senile blind owl come over and said: ‘the age-old moon seems to have been washed away by the surging waters? Splendid that! Let’s catch now rats and mouse! ’ Hadn’t the owl hooted out this cherished affair? Taste of life—the fragrance of golden corn of winter evening— seemed intolerable to you; — Content now in the morgue In the morgue—sultry with the bloodied mouth of a battered rat! Listen yet, tale of this dead; — Was not refused by the girl of love, Didn’t miss any joy of conjugal life, the bride went ahead of time and let him know honey and the honey of reflection; His life ne’er shivered in demeaning hunger or painful cold; So now in the morgue he lies flat on the dissection table. Know—I know woman’s heart—love—offspring—home—not all there is to things; Wealth, achievement, affluence apart there is some other baffling surprise that whirls in our veins; It tires and tires, and tires us out; but there is no tiring in the post mortem cell and so, there he rests, in the post mortem cell flat on the dissection table. Still I see the age-old owl, ah, Nightly sat on the aswattha bough Winks and echoes: ‘The olden moon seems to be carried away by the flooding waters? That’s splendid! Let’s catch now rats and mouse—’ Hi, granny dear, splendid even today? Let me age like you—and see off the olden moon in the whirlpool at the Kalidaha; Then the two of us will desert life’s abundant reserve.

the early chapters of my book included bus passes now its tire traction off like fuck crashes, ask him how? insurance higher than the lease bill, run flats when the feet peel fish tail the boy eats meals, tummy ache from my cheap thrills granny hug the way the seat feel, on the left turn, leave the neck burn from the frost bit links, size of an earth worm, wasted on last check earned im, expecting this so it aint odd, two 5's on the paint job, lactose, wide body, fat grannys watch over me when i act slow, rev till i plateau keys sported on the hip, jeff gordon is his mind, life's forza on the strip switch gears like i take breaths, wish i had 8 left 6 got skipped, went to 7th from the 5th more advance than your average, i like coupes, two shit when my friends pull up, stops tur ato a pageant but until i get that engo, its es chapter uno but i know what that bus pass turned into its magic