The inevitable descent.

Old people are something of an enigma to me. Inside that seemingly docile and non-threatening wrinkled, dry husk approximating skin on their gnarled and bent animated cadavers lays venom to rival that of any form of marine life on the planet. I don't know if it is a life time of experience, years of disappointment or a simple resentment of the younger, moister world at large- fermenting inside of their withered forms that creates this reservoir of spite, but I know this: my Nanna, is evil.

I don't think it's a brain parasite.

Old people appear to develop a complex pathology that is one part amnesia and one part tourette's . In essence, they forget not to say the malignant things slithering around in their minds. The pathogen remains dormant for the most part, only becoming apparent in and around company. Usually a mixture of family and acquaintance.

Thai restaurants just don't have enough hard liquor.

One example that springs to mind would be somewhere between the fish cakes and the Mee Goreng Noodles my Nanna randomly announcing that she was glad my sister had broken up with her boyfriend because nobody liked him and that obviously my sister had been unhappy because she looked terrible lately. This was essentially true save for two minor details. One: She hadn't actually broken up with her boyfriend. Two: He was indeed sitting four seats down from my Nanna.

Undiplomatic immunity.

Like any good disease or disorder it has developed a resistance to being treated, corrected or stamped out. This is in the form of a mid-generation relative, usually my father, dropping the universal excuse/explanation of, "She's old."

"No shit."

As if age suddenly excuses being an arsehole. "Excuse me, you seem to extinguished your cigarette in my child's eye and are now urinating on my suede couch. Oh, but I see you're old, can I get you some soft fruit or a boiled lolly?" Actually the old might excuse the urinating on the couch, but that doesn't excuse the...

The inevitable descent.

Old people are something of an enigma to me. Inside that seemingly docile and non-threatening wrinkled, dry husk approximating skin on their gnarled and bent animated cadavers lays venom to rival that of any form of marine life on the planet. I don't know if it is a life time of experience, years of disappointment or a simple resentment of the younger, moister world at large- fermenting inside of their withered forms that creates this reservoir of spite, but I know this: my Nanna, is evil.

I don't think it's a brain parasite.

Old people appear to develop a complex pathology that is one part amnesia and one part tourette's . In essence, they forget not to say the malignant things slithering around in their minds. The pathogen remains dormant for the most part, only becoming apparent in and around company. Usually a mixture of family and acquaintance.

Thai restaurants just don't have enough hard liquor.

One example that springs to mind would be somewhere between the fish cakes and the Mee Goreng Noodles my Nanna randomly announcing that she was glad my sister had broken up with her boyfriend because nobody liked him and that obviously my sister had been unhappy because she looked terrible lately. This was essentially true save for two minor details. One: She hadn't actually broken up with her boyfriend. Two: He was indeed sitting four seats down from my Nanna.

Undiplomatic immunity.

Like any good disease or disorder it has developed a resistance to being treated, corrected or stamped out. This is in the form of a mid-generation relative, usually my father, dropping the universal excuse/explanation of, "She's old."

"No shit."

As if age suddenly excuses being an arsehole. "Excuse me, you seem to extinguished your cigarette in my child's eye and are now urinating on my suede couch. Oh, but I see you're old, can I get you some soft fruit or a boiled lolly?" Actually the old might excuse the urinating on the couch, but that doesn't excuse the blinding of my hypothetical offspring.

Wanted: Animal trainer, must have own bingo wheel.

In the previous eighteen months my sisters and I have developed what we refer to as The Thelma Protocols. These are basically a collection of prefabricated topics and physical cues to distract, disorientate or diffuse this matriarch of malice long enough to change the subject to a previously concocted neutral topic. This keeps her disorientated and unable to strike until she reacclimatises in which case we then shift topics again.

The red pill, or the blue pill?

The prospect of growing old fills me with ambiguity. On the one hand there is the bitter, twisted, wrinkled existence where making it to the toilet is a will I or won't I affair and constantly being overpowered anything heavier than a roll of Worthers Butterscotch. On the other hand there is the endorphin fuelled MDMA-like high these cronies seem to get when they lay the hate down on their near and dear. That somewhat may explain why they constantly suck on their dentures.

Nanna's underlying evil aside, she was right about one thing; my sister's ex-boyfriend is a total dick.