The damaging grandmother watcher

In the distant 80s in the research institute, where my mother worked, there was, of course, a transit regime and not everyone could get there. And I was very anxious to get tired in the evening on the sidewalk, staring into the crowd of outgoing employees. Of course, it wasn’t every night. Sometimes my mom asked me to meet her to break somewhere together.
Whether it is a movie or a gastronome, where one to stand in the evening 2-3 rounds in different box office was unrealistic.
But closer to the matter. Once, a couple or three times, my mom asked the good old lady to leave me to her. With a screw, but I agreed. But every time I came to meet my mother, I encountered a very harmful creature with small rats eyes, huge glasses, and an immense pelvis. She didn’t want to let me in because of her innate confusion, for which she gave me the nickname of Tortilla. I have to say that this nickname was quite tightly attached to her, and soon it was so called by all the employees of the NIH, because they were completely solidary with me.
What will you take from me? What kind of spy am I? And the secret there, in fact, was not a fig. Everyone walked through the hallways or sat in the offices and diligently pretended to be working. Standard picture of the Soviet era.
Then came the summer. And this means that schoolchildren had to undergo labor practice (born in the USSR will understand what I am talking about). This is when all working children were taught to work. Greening the streets, cleaning the school area and other boredom. My classmate Dymon and I did more cleverly: as our mothers worked together, they talked a little to a NIH-shnown aunt and we worked under supervision. And we had it on hand: the dining room under the side, the mothers with lunch rubles provided properly (not tuna eaters, after all). There was a little work there: yes, bring it. And after a lawful 4-hour working day water procedures, the sea beneath the side.
And since we worked on legal grounds, the passage into the territory of the institute was unimpeded. All the watters knew us in the face and missed us without any problems. But Tortilla, apparently, had a stunning bad memory: she looked at me with contempt, she principally did not answer the greetings, but she could not let in. And how she wanted it, was seen with her unarmed gaze. And here, Dimka and I go from the dining room to the institute full, satisfied. It’s quiet because it’s all about lunch.
Yes, and Tortilla, to see, they demanded their time to fill. He sits on the post and a cup of tea from a large bowl crumbles. As soon as we passed the post, I had a genius plan for revenge in my head! What did Dimke whisper about. He took on the wrath, for the wrath was greater than my wrath. Literally 15 meters after the watch, there is a toilet right along the corridor. We run there and go out through the window we open. The first floor, of course. When we find ourselves on the street, we run to the sidewalk, we slow down, we enter the hall, and, like nothing else, we pass Tortilla for the second time. I see, I was interested. Snoring has stopped. We are back in the corner and into the toilet. We do a third round. This time, the old turtle was out. After running away with Dimon and, as it should be, I propose to complicate the trick, thus returning the grandmother's mind to place - "go out" in the same way the same number of times. What was done. The most difficult thing was to pretend that nothing was happening and not to stumble!
Thanks to all.