What do you call that, kiddo?
I don’t have any real uncles, but growing up, I had a few honorary ones. Loudest among those was Ian. He would burst through the door far too early on a Saturday morning with “it’s only me… tall, dark and handsome.” He would then sit down for his cup of coffee and where possible, gloat over a recent dragon’s win. Sometimes he’d spy a piece of my art – “What do you call that, kiddo? A montage?”
He arrived to pinch the motoring section of the paper. I would call him stingy, tight… and he would gleefully retort that he was thrifty. He was proud of his frugality and could put a scotsman to shame. If I was really lucky, I escaped Saturday morning without one of his jokes. But more often than not, I had to endure one.
If I had some photos of beer, perfectly mown lawns or golf fairways (not bunkers!), I’d make them into a slideshow now with perhaps a Roy Orbison track as ‘background music.’ I don’t have any of those things though, so a ‘montage’ will have to do. So long. You will be missed by this ‘sheila’.