Granny Goes Green

John tip-toed through the scattered piles of plastic bottles, jars and tins that hid the pattern on his grandmother's kitchen tiles. "Granny, you can't put the tin-cans in with the glass bottles."

"Sure I can! They both had pickles in them, so they're just the same." Her rosy cheeks glowed with the delight of finding a new hobby: recycling.

John didn't want to discourage her, but as always, she hadn't just got hold of the wrong end of the stick, she had picked up a rattlesnake that looked like a stick. "It doesn't work that way... and you can't put the old newspapers in the food waste bin."

"Why not? It's all biodegradable--that nice Mr. Petterson with the bad teeth told me."

"That nice Mr. Petterson with the bad teeth is lucky that he isn't currently serving 10-15 for using his dear dead Aunt--gawd rest her soul--as compost for his brambles. I wouldn't believe a thing that hippie says."

Her grey eyes creased at the corners and her nostrils flared a little: a sure sign of a matronly scolding about to take place. She never shouted--didn't need to. Her quiet voice plainly spelled out that John was 'disrespecting his elders'. "Well, I think Mr. Petterson is more 'misguided' than criminal. Besides, he get's my hamster's droppings for his brambles since the state re-interred his aunt in the cemetery; he says they're particularly good for the dry plants that like it eric -- "

" -- xeric -- "

" -- yes, eric. Now, pass me those potato peelings and I'll pop them in Hammy's cage."

"Do they eat potato peelings?" John passed her the peelings, and gingerly picked out his way to join her at Hammy's cage. He stared into the beady eyes of one of the fattest, meanest creatures ever to evolve from hamster DNA, and--not for the first time--wondered why Granny didn't just have a cat like old ladies were supposed to pet.

"He likes other vegetables--ground beef, too! You should see him with a hamburger." She pushed potato peelings through the bars, narrowly missing the razor-like teeth that aimed instead for her papery flesh. Her face took on a beatific look as she cooed to her little pet, "Who's a big boy, den? Who's a clever little eco-weeko-warrior-muncher, den?"

"Yes, but that doesn't mean he can eat all kinds of scraps--you could kill him."

"Oh, really, John! You are a worry-wart. He looks just fine to me."

It was time to change the subject. When she got that look in her eyes, there was no talking to her. John decided to put the kettle on. It was then that he noticed a gaping whole in the lower cupboards, were Granny's white goods should have been.

"Granny?"

"Yes?"

"Where's the washing machine gone?"

"I sent it to the recycle centre."

"Was it broken?"

"Sort of."

"What do you mean, 'Sort of'?"

"The garbage men like it if you rinse out your containers."

A cold chill settled on John's spine as his mind gradually caught up with Granny's reasoning. "You rinsed a load of glass bottles and tin cans in the washing machine?"

"I thought it would be fine on a delicate cycle."

John's patience was at an end. If she carried on living like she would not have any possessions left by the end of the week. "Granny. Going green is supposed to save the environment and its resources, not reduce you to a washing tub in the yard. Besides, the way you're going, that nice Mr. Petterson with the bad teeth will be recycling you in his garden compost."

She drew herself up to her full height of 4'10". No grandson was going to talk to her like she was daft. "Show some respect for your elders! You'll have me in a home next, the way you're talking, and that is not going to happen. It's you who'll drive me to an early grave with all your fussing--oh, and you needn't worry about that, either; I've got it all planned. In the terms of the will, you get the house, and I've made sure that I donate my body to science. Mr. Petterson gets my old dentures and the hamster droppings. See? I'm even going green from beyond the grave."