One of the big pub chains is advertising Dads’ Day. Presumably they mean Fathers’ Day and perchance they’ve used Dad as they can’t spell father. At least that’s what I suggested to the LSO as we drove past.‘Maybe they think there’s an R in it,’ I said.
‘Wouldn’t that make it Fart(h)er?’ said the LSO.
‘Well, that would suit most.’
‘And what if they start putting an R in Mother and making it Martyr,’ said the LSO, not sensibly and venturing onto dangerous ground.
Then I remembered the martyr streak that tends to run through our family. My mother used to do everything clutching her head or her stomach. One day I caught myself clutching my back and doing an exaggerated moan as I took out the rubbish (not my job!). I realised I was in danger of turning into a martyr too.
Happy Dads’ Day, if it applies.
This post is dedicated to Farters and Martyrs everywhere.