Wilson was sitting in the garden making some last-minute adjustments to his Eurovision scoring chart when the postman called with an envelope addressed to him. I took it out to him and he opened it.
'It's a birthday card,' he announced.
'I can see that!' I replied, 'Who's it from?'
'It's signed "From your Secret Admirer XXX"' he said.
'I don't think this "Admirer" person is my Mum, Mrs Vermilingua, any more, so I reckon I'm still okay!'
I asked him what he meant, and he explained that his plan was not to let his Mum, Mrs V. know it was almost his birthday. That way she wouldn't know he'd be seven tomorrow, so breaking the promise he'd made to her that he'd be a millionaire by then.
'Won't your Mum know it's your birthday?' I asked.
'Oh no, she's very vague about her children.' he said.
I asked him how long he thought he could maintain this deception.
'As long as necessary!' he said, confidently. 'Until I'm a millionaire, anyway!'
No comments:
Post a Comment