Aunty Bettys

Out with ceramics class for the first class of the term - back to the regular haunt (pizza place off Blackstock Road with awnings for sitting outside).

Can't remember why but I was relaying a description of my Aunty Betty (actually not an aunty, a second cousin but its a snappier title aunty - anything for a good story) - a farmers wife who always wore stilletto shoes clattering around the farmyard, a yellow twinset and black conicle bra (large pointy tits) and could butter a whole loaf of sliced white in 20 seconds while making sandwiches for the farmhands.

Two other people (out of 6) had aunty bettys, which seems quite a high proportion.

One of these alternative Aunty Bettys lived over a petrol station, ate jujubes, spent a lot of time longingly looking at the picture of her husband who died from a war-related illness having been gassed in the trenches. She caught something from kissing her budgie and died.

The other alternative Aunty Betty would sit cross legged on the floor peeling potatoes. She believed that the kitchen table was the real repository of the adventures of the household. Her architect niece designed a house for her in which the kitchen had to be exactly the same as it was in the previous house so said kitchen table could be exactly as it had always been.