The Burp came back to Perth with us while her boys all trooped off for more rural surrounds for a week.
The three of us chatted as the car wound us slowly home through forests and lush pastures. The conversation turned, as it often does on these long journeys, to leprosy. Why is it? How do you put three people in a car and eventually they're talking about leprosy? Someone should study this phenomenon.
Anyway, I put it to the panel that a good name for a pub, out on a lonely English moor somewhere, would be The Wet Leper. The Burp said she could see the pub's wooden sign slowly creaking back and forth as the wind howled and moaned. However, there was a consensus that I had failed to hit on a winner with that one.
The car buzzed on down the highway and we sipped our beverages in quiet contemplation.
2 comments:
I'm thinking, HB, that if you spent more time at work you would not have time for these musings.
(Admittedly, our lives would be the poorer for it.)
(please don't be offended, it's a joke)
The leperous child was walking along the street and as he walked a finger fell off, then a thumb, then his ear went. At this point his mother turned to him and said "pull yourself together son". from Dana
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