I wasn’t surprised to see my grandmother when I opened the front door on a balmy summer evening, though some of you may think I should have been. She’s been dead for over 50 years.
“You are looking peaky,” she said. “I heard you playing that Schubert Impromptu; a few wrong notes and a bit erratic in places.”
I looked for the ruler in her hand, the one with which she rapped my fingers at each wrong note when I was a boy. Nothing.
“Are you going to invite me in?” she asked.
“No.”
“Well you come out for a walk then,” she said, extending a hand.
“No, it’s too cold out there, and I’m not ready yet,” I said as I firmly closed the door.
Grumpytyke 