Agnes Periwinkle, 82 and a half, adjusted her floral-print helmet. “Ready, set, GO!” yelled her grandson, Timmy, from behind the starting line – a brightly coloured line drawn in chalk on the cracked patio. Agnes, perched on her motorised mobility scooter, revved the engine – a surprisingly loud *vroom* for such a small vehicle. This was the annual Periwinkle Family Mini-Golf Tournament, a tradition Agnes had single-handedly transformed into a high-stakes, high-speed affair.
“Careful, Granny!” warned her daughter, Beatrice, wringing her hands. “Last year, you took out half the gnome collection!” Agnes merely winked, a mischievous glint in her eye.
The course was, to put it mildly, unconventional. Obstacles included a grumpy chihuahua named Mr. Fluffernutter (who had a vendetta against anything on wheels), a strategically placed birdbath (which Agnes had a habit of accidentally navigating *into*), and a rather precarious stack of garden gnomes, which Agnes had already replaced twice.
Agnes zipped around the course, narrowly missing Mr. Fluffernutter, who let out a yelp of indignation. She expertly maneuvered around the birdbath (this year) and almost managed to avoid the gnomes. Almost. There was a loud *CRASH* followed by a flurry of ceramic limbs.
“Agnes!” Beatrice cried, her voice filled with despair.
Agnes, unfazed, stopped her scooter beside the scattered gnome remains, a triumphant grin splitting her face. “Well,” she said, dusting off her floral helmet, “at least they’re all properly spaced out for next year!” She paused, then added with a wink, “82 and still throwing mini-strokes! Though, perhaps I should stick to golf from now on…” She pointed to a particularly mangled gnome, its tiny arm bent at an unnatural angle. “This one’s definitely going straight to the recycling bin.”
