Wistful Whistling Thoughts…

This morning I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to Master Johnny make his way to the bathroom to shower before work. He was whistling tunelessly, unaware of his actions. I chuckled.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Lady Barton St Mary sleepily.

I explained that Master Johnny reminded me of my dad, who also had the same habit. In fact, it was also something that my granddad did, which became a bit of a habit in later life when he showed signs of dementia, when he would whistle almost constantly.

We used to visit my grandparents every week. As you may know, we are a loving family, but not particularly sympathetic. At the time of this particular visit, I would have been about 18 years old. Granddad was watching the cricket on his TV in their council flat. The sunlight shone straight through the large picture windows, which meant that Nan and Granddad both wore flat caps to shield their eyes whilst viewing.

Granddad sat gazing at the screen, whistling tunelessly.

“‘Ere, Pop, wassat song?” asked my dad, winking at me.

My granddad stopped whistling and glared at my dad.

“Fuck off,” he said, before returning to his viewing.

He wasn’t that demented.

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About ruralspaceman

A man trapped inside a middle aged body still tries to be hip and trendy. Actually, no he doesn't. He says it as he sees it. as long as it's not too controversial. Living with his wife, Lady Barton St Mary, two children, Miss Katherine and Master Johnny in Randall Towers, he is constantly frustrated by the mechanisms of modern life and the issues raised by being the husband of a high flying executive and member of the aristocracy. All he wants is a quiet life and a full set of Deal or No Deal DVDs. Please help him.
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