So there I am, crammed into the small cupboard under the vanity unit armed only with an adjustable spanner and a handy list of expletives (they weren’t actually that handy: with any plumbing job I find that I soon run out of the standards and have to be very creative about inventing new ones), when the Younger Pawn
Younger Pawn, last year
sticks her head into the bathroom and says,
“Dad, what’s my email address?”
I may have been less than sympathetic.
Thinks: it would be nice to have an expletive that actually did something useful. So that if, for example, one were to explete “Oh dear! What an unfortunate circumstance!” a third hand would mysteriously arrive from hyperspace and hold the left-handed splinge defractor, allowing you to use one of your now-free hands to steady the cambered plate infuser while using the other to locate and then manipulate the grommet-thread extraction flange. Brilliant.
Ye-es…
while “thou misbegotten whoreson foul-stenched devil-spawn contra-rotating flange-arse!” might have a certain, oh I don’t know, a je ne sais quois, it would be really nice if it came with an AFS and a bucket.
Meanwhile, it’s reassuring to know that even people with young, fresh neurons manage to forget their own email addresses.
It was very sweet, actually. She couldn’t remember whether it was .com or .com.au.
not .name? Surely she’s international, no?
well, there’s the gmail account…