I always wanted to drive a monster truck, just like the ones I had seen on television. A bright yellow one with flaming red fire bursts along the body and huge chunky squash em flat tyres.
They had names like Bigfoot, Crusher and Goliath, (a keep out of my way moniker).
I would name mine Masher, as I sat 12 feet off the ground lording it over the small cars with the fancy names.
With a big birthday coming up I was hoping my family would pick up on my subtle hints along with Monster truck magazines laying open on every table. The day arrived and everyone turned up and watched as I opened my cards and presents. I tried hard to show excitement as cups, various toiletries and a scarf were revealed. Finally there was only one left, an envelope with a picture of a huge truck on the front. I tore it open in anticipation and excitedly read the voucher.
A ticket to watch the Big Monster Mash up show at Wembley next week.
Charlie saw my look of resignation.
‘Oh Gran, you didn’t think they would allow you to drive one, at 100 years old, I don’t think you would be covered by insurance.’