The adventures of our supergranny

I've decided I am very fond of the name Lisander. It's not really a good name for a son, unless I'd want him to be a daydreaming fag, but it would carry on grandpa Shandor's name and it's a cute war plane also... Hang on, the dog's gone quiet. Never a good sign.
        ....Back. *sigh* Okay, I got to write this down, as it's super funny and super not funny also - depends how much your stomach hurts that day.
          Yesterday morning, before seven, our darling gran calls me to tell me she and some cab driver, who is married to some woman she knows, are coming to my apartment to take away some things she wants to sell. Now, don't get me wrong - this used to be her home for fifty years and she is more than welcomed to take her things she's hitherto been unable to transport... but it's not her things she's after. It's the things she gave away as gifts, mostly to my mum, but which are costly and she would love to please someone of the people who are dying to buy them. (Often she completely fails to comprehend their value and sells them happily, proudly for the 10 % of the price.) But anyway - this still isn't as much my problem as that of my mother's, and if it was for me I'd let them bull one another endlessly. Not my game, anymore, really. But yesterday, I was ill - the past few weeks of working in the cold have gained on me and, though not in any particular frame of illness, I had slept for 14 hours and was feeling smaller than a used paper handkerchief. In NO mood to fend off strangers in my home (now for two years), explaining why the flat is now a construction site.
            I explained to her what i've explained several times before: that the only way she's taking things out is if mum is here to say it's okay, as I am seriously not going to explain to my mother also why I allowed the stuff to be taken - I'm not their fucking warden. I also said I am too sick to entertain house calls and if there is things she needs and mum okays it, we'll deliver them to her place in the afternoon, when the General is home.
           So some time between seven and eight the furious ringing of the doorbell begins. Sorry, I am sweaty, snotty, my hair is greasy and my dishes aren't washed. I am wearing dirty trainers I have slept in. I am not opening.  Doorbell continues. The dog is barking, it is getting impossible to rest. Doorbell is joined by angry hammering on the door. It's the sort of the door that shakes the entire building. I know, because I once tried to bring it down, afraid gran is inside unconscious, and nigh dislocated my shoulder. This goes on for about an hour. The dog is so scared by now, she is frozen stiff between my ankles, dead quiet, staring insistently towards the origin of the ruckus, occasionally making tiny, internal snarling sounds.
            The General is telephoning me to check in on me frequently, asking if he should come over, but also asking my mum what to do - we know our super granny enough to know she tends to walk in, grab things she believes will bring her fame and fortune and just has strangers phisically carry them out. However, unbeknown to me, it is no longer her banging the door, but the police. She has called them, claiming she cannot get into her own apartment anymore, as she has been thrown out. If the officer was calling for me, I cannot say - I honestly didn't hear them. The General, however, phoned our supergranny and managed to communicate to the police, explaining how this is no longer her legal residence and she is trying to relieve us of items only marginally hers to retrieve. (Oh, and I failed to mention that between here and her retirement home, she managed to explain to every single soul how evil we are. She does this by going from tearful poor old lady to Attila The Hun incarnate, depending on the audience. I know know exactly how every single person who has ever been accused of maltreating the elders feels..) Ultimately the officer sighed, saying to the General via phone: "Ah. Now it makes sense." and left and the noises eventually subsided. Dog started breathing again after about half an hour.
            The really interesting bit in conclusion, though, is that we did just as we agreed: we gathered all the items in question and drove them first to mum and then to gran to do as she wants with them - but even though she and the General set the hour, she fled the retirement home when he arrived. About fifty or so angry old ladies were giving him dirty looks, of course, as he is a bad, bad boy indeed, and I have to say I haven't seen him this upset over anything other than me in ages. You got to give it to our granny: she aims to kill.