Tuesday, 6 August 2013


Here's a fun little guessing game any moron should be able to play. My adorable daughter and her husband paid a visit yesterday and shared some joyous news. I'm told some of you are practically cretins so I provided a fairly heavy-handed clue, left.

Yes, that's right: my daughter has a hideous, redheaded tumour. It's completely benign and I removed it myself after dinner with nothing but my bare hands and a spatula. 

Har har, of course I'm kidding: my beloved child is with child.

Let's gloss over the distasteful fact that this makes me a granny (I will insist that you refer to me as a Gramazon) and skip right to the part about this being fabulous.

As you can see, my child is a beauty. Her husband is also quite a looker. They're both darkly exotic and doe-eyed, so I've decided wish a ginger on them. It's genetically unlikely but, using my heretofore unrevealed powers of voodoo, I can make it so. Because for one thing, we don't have any gingers in our family and for another, nobody likes to see one family with that much good looks. It's unseemly. It's unfair. It's unheard of ... not even the royals have been able to achieve it. 

Diana: Beautiful.  
Wills: Started out cute and then went all Princess Anne.
Harry: Adorable, but in a questionable-sireage type of way.  
Charles: I rest my case.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Omigod! I'm going to be an uncle!
MY NOTE: Uh, nooooo. You're going to be a satyr. Those voodoo powers I mentioned ...