Lloyd George Knew My Father*

“It’s amazing: there are more men here than women,” the septuagenarian lady says to her friend.

“I expect that’s because it’s history and politics,” the friend replies.

They’re sitting next to me at my ‘Modern British Prime Ministers’ course.  So, if you’re a lady aged over sixty five looking to meet a chap, take a history or politics class.  Today’s one was about Asquith, Lloyd George and the First World War.  Was excellent.

Switching my phone on after my afternoon sleep, can see there’s a message.  It’s from the Keeshond’s owner on the dog-borrowing website.  His female owner, that is.  Or his male owner pretending to be a woman so as to entrap and murder me, according to Mum’s theory.

“Hi Tanya,” it says.  “Is there any chance you’re around Monday or Tuesday next week?  Otherwise we’re abroad until November 10th but can meet after we return.”

Life is cruel.  Monday and Tuesday are my two office days.

“Hi.  Am so happy to hear from you,” I fire back.  “Can’t do Monday or Tuesday as they’re my two working days, sadly.  Please do get in touch on your return: am so looking forward to meeting your gorgeous dog.  Best wishes, Tanya.”

Really hope they don’t forget me.  Will make a note to contact them again if haven’t heard from them by a few days after November 11th.

Am at the parentals again.  Had better wrap this up: is supper time.

Happy Thursday everyone!
*1972.  By William Douglas Home.  Play.

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