How Many Times Have I Told You?

My dad , Mr. X (he went away to be a secret agent), he told me when he were a wee snapper they only had one TV in the village – the vicar’s son apparently – and they’d all gather there to watch the test pattern in awe.

His Dad (IX.) told him, back during one of the wars, they ate bricks for a week. Had to share a hammer to bust ‘em up. Gritty, nothing like chicken.



And me, I tell the young fella “in my day it took a whole hour to make a baked potato, so you made 60 to make it worth the effort. Stupid potatoes…” and I’ll ramble on a bit, but in the end I make my point, I think. He’s usually wandered away by then.

The details change, but the story is the same.