There is a tale of a goat, told to me by Fifi, as I was wont to call my Grandmother, as she curled her hair in tight poodle ringlets. It was irreverent of me, to do this, but it was why she loved me. I would pester her to tell me the tale of the goat. She would sigh and roll her eyes and say “it is not that funny.” I would plead “tell me the tale of the goat.” She would smile and begin. “Once when I was a little girl, I went on a school excursion to a dairy farm and I came upon a goat. It had a friendly face and a stubby beard, so I decided to give it a toffee. It chewed the toffee for ages, like this…” and she would pull an agonised face, contorting her wrinkles and pushing out her false teeth to show how the goat had struggled for ages to chew on the toffee. I would squeal with delight, I could see the goat, straining to take in the sweetness of the sticky toffee and a diminutive version of my grandmother, like Madeline, in her pinafore and boater hat, with her poodle ringlets peeking out from under the rim, viewing the goat in horror as it chewed painfully. And we would smile and flip more pancakes, while we both played with the pictures in our heads.

© Tanya @ Ordinary Poetry

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