Every Thursday afternoon, while I’m sitting here with Mum, I think about my dead rellies.
I call them my great great greats.
You know, like in great great great grandad or great great great grandma or great great great dog etc. Except most of my dead rellies need heaps more greats than that, cause most of them lived bulk amounts of time ago.
As Dad always says, life is short.
So make the most of it.
Which is why, as I’m sitting here waiting, I like to pretend I am them, my greats.
Which isn’t as crazy as it sounds. We’ve all got bits of our greats inside us. We’re actually made of them, inheritancely speaking. Ask your teacher, if you don’t believe me. Or a rellie if you’ve got one who’s still alive and very old, like over fifty.
Today I’m being my great great great etc. Uncle Thyroid. Who was a fearless sloth hunter on the icy slopes of the tundra an incredibly long time ago when they hadn’t even invented ski lifts.
The truth is I’m not completely sure his name was Uncle Thyroid…
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