There I was, sat in the kitchen perusing the Death column in my local paper when my pleasure was rudely interrupted by a hammering on the door. It was so loud and inistent that I assumed that either the Excise man had made good on his threats following the recent unpleasantness, or ISAC had published my name and address and I was under siege from the very occasional person who may have misconstrued one of my posts.
However when the dogs and I flung the door open, ready to go down in the style of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, I was faced with an old gent wielding a walking-stick which he must have used to bray at the door. I could see that the dogs had the beating of the pensioner if he cut up rough, so I demanded to know what the Fuck he wanted. Obviously not in the least intimidated by 2 snarling dogs and one snarling cunt, he set to explaining to me that he was researching his family tree and believed he was some kind of distant relative of mine.
I was taken aback by this unwelcome revelation, and before I could gather my wits he asked if he could see the old family bible and any other documents or photos I might have. Fortunatey, by that point I’d composed myself sufficiently to demand of the coffin-dodging grave-peeker if he thought that I was some kind of Public Records Office. I was in the middle of telling him I’d never heard of his family surname in connection with mine (I had) and that I had better things to do than stand on my doorstep bandying gossip with a complete stranger, when he said he had documents and old maps in the car which he’d like to show me.
I let him wobble back down across the stackyard to his car, gather up his papers, and teeter right back to my door. Just as he reached out to show me some bit of paper I shut the door on him. These Family Tree searchers are mostly busybodies hoping that they’ll stumble on some misplaced inheritance, although by the look of the old goat that I chased, I was a sight more likely to collect from his will than he was from mine.
I have no interest in my close family, never mind some grasping old fart who probably hadn’t bought one off those life-assurances policies and was hoping that I’d spare him the shame of a Beggar’s Funeral by contributing to the expense. He was wrong.
Nominated by: Dick Fiddler