Pop stood propped up against the living room door jamb, a frosted beer mug in hand. He watched while his grandson caught a beating from good old Nana and her trusty wooden spoon.
He wasn’t too bothered about it though; his wife was pushing ninety and those spindly arms of hers wouldn’t do much damage. The kid’s rear will be sore tomorrow, but he’ll live.
Pop took a sip, smiled. Usually Nana was too invested in her stories to give a damn about what they were up to.
Seems like next time, they’ll have to be a bit more careful.
The Weekday One Hundred 