A delightful posting here about plastic-tasting glug reminded me vividly of a saga with my Aunty Amy. I was living with her and Uncle Vic the whole three years I was at university in the late 1960s, after teaching ankle-biters for a couple of years.
She insisted on packing me a cut lunch, which had its advantage in cost-saving for someone climbing down from a teacher's wage of about $50 to $19 per week. Apart from a piece of fruit, the lunch invariably consisted of two sizable packs of sandwiches. Aunty Amy was short and barrel-shaped, and her main mission in life was to try to make everyone else conform roughly those proportions. Me, anyway.
|Avocado, not mustard. *SIGH*
But, as in the piece mentioned above, it got to the stage where it was too late to say, "Don't put mustard on it" without raising a query from Aunty Amy about why, and I wasn't skilled enough in diplomacy to get around it.
The problem was solved when I started meeting my youngest sister at the university refectory for lunch, she being in the first year of her degree. She had no objection to the mustard and was as poor as I, if not poorer, so for the best part of three years, Aunty Amy unknowingly provided lunch for both of us. [Had she discovered it, she would have simply doubled the rations.]
Aunty Amy was Dad's sister, and much loved by us all. When we were little, on the rare times she was able to visit the farm, she snuck out to us kids on the verandah and told bum jokes.
Aunty Amy was wicked, you see. That's why we loved her so much.
"What's the difference," she would ask us, blue eyes sparkling, "between a postbox and an elephant's bum?"
"I don't know," we'd chorus, with evil expectancy in our eyes.
"Well," she'd snort, "I'm not going to send any of you to post my letters!"
They just don't make them like that any more.
Her only complaint was that she couldn't sit babies on her lap, "...because I don't have any lap!" she'd say sadly.
But oh, she was rude, in the way the Vicar of Dibley is when telling rude jokes to Alice.
"Do you know what I'm going to buy if I win the lottery?" She'd make sure our mother wasn't around, or pretend to, to make it more conspiratorial.
"What will you buy?" we asked, knowing it was going to be deliciously rude.
"I'm going to get a new bum," she said, "because mine's got a hole in it."
Unlike the Vicar's Alice, we were rude too. We needed no explanation of the joke, and a splendid one it was, you must admit.
If you're rude.*
*No kidding, this just came up on my tweetline: "Touch the hole in your life, and there flowers will bloom." ~ Zen saying. [I suppose now you can be certain that Aunty Amy and I are related.]