The Missing G

I love stories like this. At the World Scrabble Championships in Warsaw this week a Thai contestant accused his British opponent of stealing a G and hiding it about his person. He demanded that he be taken to the (G)ents and strip-searched. But the jud(g)es said, ‘Naah. (G)et a life, why don’t ya.’

There was a £20,000 prize at stake but as neither the Thai nor the Brit were in the frame I’d say that was a wise call.  I know how high feelings can run when a Scrabble game is at stake. Mr F and I used to play occasionally. It was about as competitive as I ever got and we had the added spice that comes of a mixed marriage, two souls separated by a common language. Anyway, you’ll note I say used to play.

There came an evening when I was so far ahead in the game I couldn’t help but whup his American ass. What did he do? Concede? Go and graciously make the cocoa? No. He ‘accidentally knocked’ the board off the table thereby (he reckoned) voiding the contest. We’ve never played since. As a matter of fact, when the grandchildren ask to play Snap or Happy Families they have to choose. It’s Gramps or me. I refuse to sit at a card table with a sore loser. 

A missing G in this house too. Yesterday the gas man cameth and wenteth away again. The boiler is kaput and when it will be repaired is anybody’s guess. Fortunately we have to spend the afternoon at the neuro-surgery clinic so we’ll stay warm at the expense of the Irish tax payer. Let no man accuse me of not paying my way.

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