She'd imagined being a grandma would involve stirring up Christmas puddings, the wains on wee wooden stools with wee matching aprons beside you, taking it in turns to heave round the big wooden spoon. Though where she'd got the notion she hadn't a baldy, for her mother never bothered making a pudding when you could buy a perfectly decent one at the Co-op and her own grandma hadn't been a pudding-mixing sort, not at all.
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