My boring Grandad by Daisy Swain

Down by the gloomy, glum forest, there lived a boring football lover- he was my Grandad, Tony. “Morning Grandad.” I yelled trying to sound positive, “How are you today? Mum and Dad just dropped me off for the weekend!” Grandad looked a little bit confused.

“When did we agree for you to come round?” He still looked confused. After I had been standing in the doorway for ages, Grandad’s face finally went back to the football. I dropped my stuff and took a seat on the floor since there was no other place to seat. The game at the moment was Shrewsbury vs South Hampton. Finally, the football (that had been on for three hours) was eventually over.

After Grandad’s game had finished, he started boring me some more by looking at photos of my dad when he was little. The dark beige chest- which was filled with photos- was as big as an elephant on a humongous lorry. I was falling asleep. “Look Jessica. In this picture your dad is at the beach for the first time. Doesn’t he look sweet?” Grandad spoke loudly.

“Yes Grandad!” I yelled back to him making sure he could hear. Grandad continued this way. Telling me what was happening in each photo. Before long, my hands touched a square piece of paper. I lifted it up. On it there was a person by a MOTERBIKE. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

The darkly coloured box was shut once again and Grandad went and sat on his green chair. I had so many questions forming in my head. Who was that person? Why was it in Grandad’s box of photos? Was it Grandad? The old man, who had no hair on his head, called me over to talk. “Now than Jessica.” He said in deep voice, “You’re probably wondering who that was? Well it was me! Riding my favourite bike!” I was shocked. Grandad peeled off his chair and grabbed his wooden walking stick and opened the rotten door. The sky looked as angry as a grumpy giant. Next door to the house was a white garage. The shutters opened to reveal… A BIKE! The mammoth, energetic, Dr Martin bike (that had been sitting in the garage for years) was a dark shade of valuable black, ready to ride into the night until dawn breaks again.

My hair was blowing in the fresh scented breeze and my adrenalin rush had kicked in: I went wild. The road was a ribbon of tarmac. I learnt that my Grandad was awesome and his nickname was The Shredder because he used to use a lot of petrel on is bike. We zoomed down the road (which wasn’t very far) until the blinding sun set on the horizon. Soon the bike stopped at the unfortunate grey house. Mum and Dad came not long after, and for once I felt sad to leave Grandad. But when I got home I was going out with my best friends.

The next day tragedy had struck…

Everybody jumped in to the car, with their best clothes on, and rushed to Greenville Church. My heart was racing. My grandad was dead. I walked in. lots of seats were spare: not many people knew Grandad. The whole family took their seats and we waited for the ceremony to start. The church- that hadn’t got lots of people in- fell silent as the coffin was brought into the gloomy space. Whilst the ceremony was going on, I was too busy thinking about why did Grandad die? However I then remembered that he must have been 100 or more.

Nervously, my family and I quietly walked to the wide grassy area where Grandad was buried. The grass, which had a gravestone on, was dried and wasn’t green any more.

Grandad now rests in Greenville and life still goes on without him!



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