Pop gun
The Senior Frumplingtons [my parents] visited last week. They arrived bearing gifts (like the Christmas story’s three Wise Men…only a bit less wise) in advance of Amy Winehouse’s — and Shana’s — birthday tomorrow.
A family gathering wouldn’t be the same without a bit of shock news, and last weekend was no exception. Mama Frumplington could not have surprised us more if she had dyed her hair purple and waltzed into the room dressed as the Pope.
“I don’t like Bourbon biscuits. I never have and I never will.”
Both Shana and I were aghast. Aghast and agog — but definitely not a-giggling! How could anyone in their right mind dislike Bourbon biccies? Oh, hang on, though. I said ‘anyone in their right mind‘, didn’t I? Guess that lets the SFs off the hook, then.
Ma ‘n’ Pa sent us some photos this week. Yet more shox: this one shows my Dad somewhere around 1947. He’s holding his father’s rifle. (Grandfather Frumplington had been in the Army during WW2 and had presumably forgotten to hand in his iron once all that nastiness with the Hun had finished.) I hope the gun wasn’t loaded at the time, but if it was, those old stories about Pop bagging a brace of pheasants and the local postman might make a lot more sense, now I come to think of it.
By the way, don’t tell anyone I told you, but Pa still has knobbly knees.
