My mother watches me put my tea back in the microwave after it’s grown cold–a disgusting habit to her mind.
“Well, you come by it honestly,” she shrugs. “Your father will make a cup of tea and sit down in his study, playing on his computer, and he’ll pick up the tea an hour later and take it through to the kitchen to reheat it. Then he’ll do it again. By the third time, the mug just stands up, says, ‘thanks, mate, I know the way myself,’ and carries itself off to the microwave.”
This is about on par for my mother’s storytelling. My father used to correct details in her stories but got tired of the refrain, “yeah, but it’s BETTER the way I tell it.” (more…)