My boyfriend’s proper English grandmother was nothing like the fast-walking, loud-talking grandmother I’d grown up with—or was she?
By Judy Batalion for Tablet Magazine
“Would you like to meet my grandmother?” Jon asked above the loud chatter of the North London gastro-pub.
I put down my forkful of fish and chips tartare and stared at him with excitement. “Your grandmother?”
I’d been seeing Jon for two months, but I hadn’t even met his parents yet.
“My grandmother’s 93,” Jon said.
“Wow,” I exclaimed, breathless, as if he’d just revealed a secret fortune or robust abs. He had a living grandmother. This turned me on.
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