Hagar, my middle son, turned twenty-two yesterday and fronted up for his requested roast beef/potato bake dinner tonight.
I told him about the garage sale we had on the weekend and watched him scanning the house with the perspicacity of an eagle, eyes travelling in a 360 degree direction, hunting like a predator for something we may have neglected to hock off to absolute strangers.
“Got any spare TVs?” he asked nonchalantly, whilst wolfing down half a rare cow.
“No,” I said. “But you can have that if you want.” I pointed to a framed print, a famous print of ‘The Lighthouse Man’ which I’d filched from my sister Sam, about twelve years ago.
I’d always admired it in her lounge room and one day saw it leaning precariously against the stairs ready for the dump. “Can I have it?” I asked her that day.
“Absolutely,” she enthused. “I hate it. It’s Pedro’s (her husband). It’s bad Feng Shui. You know that guy in the photo died straight after the photo was taken. I think it's bad luck. Please, take it.”
Normally I’m a highly superstitious person, I don’t like crows, I hate the number thirteen, and I slap people on the head when I hear an ambulance approaching, but I really liked this photo. So I took it.
“Got any spare TVs?” he asked nonchalantly, whilst wolfing down half a rare cow.
“No,” I said. “But you can have that if you want.” I pointed to a framed print, a famous print of ‘The Lighthouse Man’ which I’d filched from my sister Sam, about twelve years ago.
I’d always admired it in her lounge room and one day saw it leaning precariously against the stairs ready for the dump. “Can I have it?” I asked her that day.
“Absolutely,” she enthused. “I hate it. It’s Pedro’s (her husband). It’s bad Feng Shui. You know that guy in the photo died straight after the photo was taken. I think it's bad luck. Please, take it.”
Normally I’m a highly superstitious person, I don’t like crows, I hate the number thirteen, and I slap people on the head when I hear an ambulance approaching, but I really liked this photo. So I took it.
Pedro arrived as I was surreptitiously loading it into my car.
“Where are you going with my photo?” he bellowed.
But my sister Sam eyed him from the veranda with a vicious scowl on her face, so he scurried away and let me take it away, watching me drive down the street with a pitiful look of mortification on his face.
So I’ve had this sinister harbinger of evil hanging on my wall for over a decade and I must say I’ve enjoyed a pretty bloody fantastic life ever since, so I have no qualms about passing it down to my third son. It could become a family heirloom in fact.
And I researched it and the lighthouse guy in the photo didn’t die straight after the photograph was taken. He’s still alive and kicking.
“Where are you going with my photo?” he bellowed.
But my sister Sam eyed him from the veranda with a vicious scowl on her face, so he scurried away and let me take it away, watching me drive down the street with a pitiful look of mortification on his face.
So I’ve had this sinister harbinger of evil hanging on my wall for over a decade and I must say I’ve enjoyed a pretty bloody fantastic life ever since, so I have no qualms about passing it down to my third son. It could become a family heirloom in fact.
And I researched it and the lighthouse guy in the photo didn’t die straight after the photograph was taken. He’s still alive and kicking.
What do you refuse to have in your house?
