She had a look of DOGGED determination on her face. At the age of ninety, she could almost be forgiven. But you just couldn’t take her anywhere any more. 

It was a Sunday morning. The morning that her son Pete always took her out. He had come to dread it. Usually she wanted to go to a Garden Centre or something. She was happy amongst plants. She was also happy where she could get up to mischief. And usually there was no shortage of places where mischief could be got up to. Pete was worried. They were going to a real big Garden Centre today. She could cause avsolute chaos.

Pete was right to be worried. Just as they were making their way to the coffee shop, Flo spied a kind of hammock thing that swung backwards and forwards. On it was a Notice which said,

“Do Not Sit Here.”

That was like a red rag to a bull with Flo. How could she possibly resist? She suddenly put on a spurt, and the next thing that Pete knew was that she had gone right up to the hammock thing, removed the Notice and sat down on it. There she was, swinging back and forth, her legs going up into the air. Pete was mortified, yet, underneath, he was having to stifle a giggle.

“Good old Flo,” he thought. “Nothing is going to stop her.” And in a way he was proud of her. This was his mum.

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