Went to the farm for boxing day as ninety-year-old Mom had suffered three or four TIA’s starting early xmas morning. Very distressing. Couldn’t remember if she’d had xmas or not and could not at all remember opening pressies with the great grandkids.
She recovered well and was fine later, but weak – and often worried about what she was thinking or saying. “Ooh”, she said, “I almost asked you ‘How’s Trish?’, but she died, didn’t she?” Dammitall, sad.
Meantime, of the ten people staying there, seven fell prey to the collywobbles and some vomiting. Talk about Jingle Bowels.
Also, one poor rooster got shot for xmas due to excessive enthusiasm. Poor bugger was probably just singing a desperate poultry carol, praying that he wouldn’t be the one invited to the festive table!
Taylor chirped rudely: The poor cock must have been full of lead so watch out for heavy metal poisoning. Maybe that’s what is jingling in your bowels?
Four generations and friends met at Mom’s house to celebrate her 90th today.
It was an all-day affair that included morning tea and lunch. Even when I got there after two there was cake and cheese and biscuits and olives and chips n dips, coffee and tea. Then champagne and sherry. Mom had to forego her nap!
Here’s Mom n Dad, three pensioner kids, an adult grandkid and two great-grandkids.