The whole heap of it I find myself in.
Some are born with silver spoons.
Some are born with big wooden spoons for stirring things up.
Some are born with a sharp wooden stick to poke people with.
Some are born with a shovel.
Some are born with the last three.
I am the latter.
It is not my fault. Trouble just follows me wherever I go like Mary’s Little Lamb.
Apparently, what I like to think of as seeing the humour in any situation has fallen quite flat for my nearest and dearest.
I unintentionally overheard a telephone conversation about my tendency to “give the truth scope”. Not by the way, I term I coined or one I apply to myself.
Well, not all the time.
See what I mean about the shovel?
It has finally dawned on people that whatever they and do, especially if I find it remotely amusing, will land up in cyber space.
“I do wish you would stop harping on Greece,” said Leslie, “It reminds me of that bloody book of Gerry’s. It took me ages to live that down.”
“Took you ages?” said Larry caustically. “What about me? You’ve no idea what damage that Dickens-like caricature did to my literary image.”
“But the way he wrote about me, you would think I never thought about anything but guns and boats,” said Leslie.
“Well you do never do anything but think about guns and boats.” (or llamas and Robertson – added the husband)
“I was the one who suffered most,” said Margo. “He did nothing but talk about my acne.”
“I wouldn’t mind being lampooned in decent prose,” Larry pointed out, blowing his nose vigorously, “but to be lampooned in bad English is unbearable.”
“The title alone is insulting,” said Margo. “My Family and Other Animals! I get sick of people saying, “And which other animal are you?”
“I thought the title was rather funny, dear,” said Mother. “The only thing I thought was that he hadn’t used all the best stories.”