25 May 2011
408
R. Linda:
Well, heard from me apple-cheeked, grey-haired little Mam today. Here's her letter.
Dear Gabriel, me only son and the one I will be expectin' ta take care of me in me old age (when your faathah kicks the bucket):
Here be just a few lines to let ya know that I be still alive (and well). I be writing this slowly because I know that ye can't read all dat fast. Anyways, dere be sum news fer ya sonny. Ya won't know the house when you coom to visit. We've moved. Ok, on ta family news fer ya, son.
First, yer faathah has got himself a lovely new job he has. He has 500 men under him. He cuts the grass at St. Luca's cemetery he does.
Second, yer sistah Sheila had a baby dis mornin' she did, but I haven't found out if it's a girl or a boy, so I don't know if yer an aunt or an uncle. I'll let ya know soons I hear.
Turdly, as fer me, I went ta da doctors on Tursday last and your faathah came wit me. The doctor put a small tube in me mouth and told me not to talk for 10 minutes. It was a chore not to I can tell ya that. BUT your faathah offered to buy the ting from him which made me none to happy wit em'. I'd like ta send him over da pond to ya, not necessarily by boat but by the seat of his trousers and I be seriously considerin' it.
Sad news, your uncle Shamus drowned las week in a vat of Irish whiskey he did, at the Dublin brewery. Sum o' his workmates tried to save em' but he fought dem off bravely he did. Anyway, we cremated em' yes we did, but it took tree days ta put out da fire.
Speakin a waater it rained twice dis week, first for tree days den fer four. I taught ya might want ta know dat.
Oh befer I forgit, we had a letter from the undertaker, he said if the last payment on yer grandmother's plot wasn't paid in 7 days, oop she cooms.
Your sweet little grey-haired, apple-cheeked Mam
P.S. I was gonna send ya £5 but I already sealed the envelope. Love ya honee.
YUP!!!
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
Well, heard from me apple-cheeked, grey-haired little Mam today. Here's her letter.
Dear Gabriel, me only son and the one I will be expectin' ta take care of me in me old age (when your faathah kicks the bucket):
Here be just a few lines to let ya know that I be still alive (and well). I be writing this slowly because I know that ye can't read all dat fast. Anyways, dere be sum news fer ya sonny. Ya won't know the house when you coom to visit. We've moved. Ok, on ta family news fer ya, son.
First, yer faathah has got himself a lovely new job he has. He has 500 men under him. He cuts the grass at St. Luca's cemetery he does.
Second, yer sistah Sheila had a baby dis mornin' she did, but I haven't found out if it's a girl or a boy, so I don't know if yer an aunt or an uncle. I'll let ya know soons I hear.
Turdly, as fer me, I went ta da doctors on Tursday last and your faathah came wit me. The doctor put a small tube in me mouth and told me not to talk for 10 minutes. It was a chore not to I can tell ya that. BUT your faathah offered to buy the ting from him which made me none to happy wit em'. I'd like ta send him over da pond to ya, not necessarily by boat but by the seat of his trousers and I be seriously considerin' it.
Sad news, your uncle Shamus drowned las week in a vat of Irish whiskey he did, at the Dublin brewery. Sum o' his workmates tried to save em' but he fought dem off bravely he did. Anyway, we cremated em' yes we did, but it took tree days ta put out da fire.
Speakin a waater it rained twice dis week, first for tree days den fer four. I taught ya might want ta know dat.
Oh befer I forgit, we had a letter from the undertaker, he said if the last payment on yer grandmother's plot wasn't paid in 7 days, oop she cooms.
Your sweet little grey-haired, apple-cheeked Mam
P.S. I was gonna send ya £5 but I already sealed the envelope. Love ya honee.
YUP!!!
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
6 comments:
She did not! LOL
I LOVE IT!! Especially the fire and the money!
OMG that it too funny. Love it!!!
ROFL! I love HER!
wowza yer mum haz a wicked sensie a humour hehee
Are you sure this isn't my mum? She says I read slow and that makes her write slow and it's all on account of the grog I drink. I know what it's from, she calls it her scotch broth, but the crew and I refer to as her dead man's rum concoction, that twists your knickers into a sail full enough to catch the west wind, clang your head like a ship's bell and make your eyeballs do a 360 in your head what the hell is in this stuff soup. Savvy?
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