Hold your noses people, for the waft of mothballs is in the air. My aged Father is the modern day equivalent of the embalming process used by the ancient Egyptians. He lives and breathes mothballs, and no doubt when he kicks the bucket aged 100+, we'll be popping them in the casket to preserve him.
We all suffer as a result. A bit like life before the smoking ban in pubs when you came home from a night out stinking to high heaven of stale fags. We come home to Yorkshire with a distinct reminder of being with Grandpa Mothballs. It's like bringing a little bit of him away with us, God love him.
We had a lovely week in Norfolk (my back injury pushed to one side). Grace got to spend time with her Grandpa, reading, playing and drawing pictures of Minnie Mouse. Practicing walking round the street was also much enjoyed, and Dad's back was ok seeing as he has old man stoop anyway!
Talking of Minnie Mouse. It's a long standing nickname that my Mother suffers from her other half, Grandpa Mothballs himself. We visited my Mum, Grace's Nanny in Hospital where she's being treated for various ailments. So Mum, this one's for you. Stop calling that Husband of yours Squirrel - I firmly believe Mothballs is much more fitting. FACT!
Love to you both, from Grace, me and Matt the Husband x x x