February 12th, 1992

February 12th, 1992

At home, England

Just got home from a lovely evening chez H & M, where we ate the most delicious curry prepared by Uncle Harry. Whenever I eat such a culinary marvel I make a little promise to myself to learn how to cook but as Pamsy is fond of saying; “Karen can barely boil an egg!”

Dad and Harry had us in stitches with tales of their youthful shenanigans back in Glasgow during their single days, but I suspect, in the presence of Suzi and Christina’s young ears, they only scratched at the surface.

My upcoming nuptials were well celebrated and I only wish William could’ve been there to join in the fun. Harry said it’s lucky we’re not getting married in Scotland, otherwise Dad would have to rob a bank to pay the bar bill!

On several occasions, usually after one too many wee drams, Dad’s been known to reminisce about some of the girls he dated but those outbursts usually end with Mum whacking him on the arm and rolling her eyes as she exclaims, “Stop talking rubbish!”

Aside from William’s previous very short marriage, I don’t know much about who he dated but at this point, does it really matter? I’ve shared a few things with him about David and a couple of snippets about Ben but where do you draw the line on how much you divulge?

 

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