Letter 3.

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Dear Granny Gene,

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Dear Granny Gene,

I think I need to catch you up to speed.

So, there wasn't only Remy living under our sink, but Ronda and their three children. Rat Man John delivered well and had them out of our way in no time.

The entire ordeal sent us both into a cleaning frenzy. I swear the cupboards were chipping by the time we were done with them.

It totally grossed me out.

Enough to eat takeaway six nights in a row.

It's extremely warm out this afternoon. As soon as I get inside Mason's car after my work shift, I see the pink tinge to my skin. My face is on fire. Sometimes even SPF50 isn't high enough for my tone.

"Are we having takeout again tonight?" Mason asks, looking sweaty in his suit pants and jacket.

27 degrees.

Isn't it supposed to be the north of England?

I'm tempted to hang my head out of the window to grab as much air as possible. The heat is so close your clothes do nothing but stick to you. Not ideal for working outside.

I already feel fifty stone heavier from swelling in the heat, not to mention the amount of salt I have consumed over the past week.

"No. My health kick started today," I say, noticing the new Appleby's ice cream parlour up ahead. "Actually, wait, can you pull up here? I want an ice cream."

He's laughing at me like I make no sense. "Those two sentences don't match up."

"Oh, quit it. Let's go eat."

Vanilla with strawberry sauce and dried berries. Chocolate with mini marshmallows and toffee sauce... Rum and raisin!

Okay, so there's no competition at this point.

Rum and bloody raisin.

It's been years.

How the heck are you?

"Franny? Are you having a conversation with the ice cream or the assistant?" Mason asks.

Wait, am I speaking out loud?

Oh, gran, look at me.

It's the heat.

Yeah, let's blame the heat.

"Sorry!" The young guy behind the counter doesn't look impressed. "Can I have a double scoop of rum and raisin in a wafer cone?"

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