"Bugger happiness" my inner grandad tells me, uncharacteritsically crude.  "What are you going to do for your mother today?"  He hopes something necessary but unpleasant.

My mother - his eldest daughter, who he has despised for not being a boy, ever since he came back from the First World War, has always been a burden my grandad likes to pass on to others.  His real name is Albert Sidebottom.  Long dead, half digested.

Grandad's big on contempt.  He likes rare steaks, playing patience in front of the black and white television, and growling at the screen.

"Just because you got up quite early, Alec, doesn't mean you can witter away the time writing nonsense on your calculator.  You could change those sheets.  You'll be far to tired when you come home tonight."

He says "Alec" with a sneer, because I remind him of my father.  It seems it is partly my fault dad left mum back on my grandad's wife's hands.

"Never enjoy yourself too much, my boy." he says in conclusion, shuffling the playing cards for another game.   "Enjoyment can get you into all sorts of trouble.  Will you tell your grandmother to bring me another cup of coffee?"