Herself phoned her sister yesterday.
They come from a large family of the Galway Mafia, but with the passing of the years Herself has just about outlived them all except one. That sister lives in a foreign war-torn land called North Dublin, so we don’t see much of her. Most communication is via the telephone.
So anyhows, the conversation naturally started with Herself bursting to tell Sister about her eye operation. What is it about women that they insist on broadcasting their operations and ailments to all and sundry? An eye operation is a biggie in the bragging stakes and is far better than, say, an operation on varicose veins or a bunion, so Herself felt she was on to a winner. She had all the gory details mentally lined up and here was her chance to score some really major points.
So the call was made.
“Howya! It’s only me” says Herself.
“Is it yourself?” says Sister [or words to that effect]. “How is the eye after the operation?”
What the fuck? Herself was devastated and utterly deflated. All those dreams of impressing Sister with minute details of scalpels and surgeons vanished in a puff of smoke.
“How do you know?” asked Herself after gathering her scattered thoughts.
“Daughter told me” says Sister.
It transpires that Daughter occasionally reads this here site for some strange reason and had passed on my mention the other day of the trip to the hospital.
Now I have to track back to check all my scribbles for mentions of The Family.