A small deception

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!'

An unsuitable love match?

Wilson has just pinned up a photograph of the lovely Nina Morato on his noticeboard, next to his Eurovision Voting Chart. 

I've done a little research of my own, and Ms Morato is now a serious film star and stage actor. Also, she is now almost 50 years old — I can't accept that she would be a suitable partner for a seven-year-old anteater. I've told W this, but he will brook no objections, saying that he will write a formal letter of proposal to her as soon as he can find her email address.

This so reminds me of Pictures Of Lily, the Who song about a young boy infatuated by the long-dead Lily Langtry. It cannot end well.

Also on his board I spotted a note headed, 'What to do about Mrs V.' I asked him about this and he said he'd had an idea…

Wilson asks me to remind you that today is Lost Sock Memorial Day — and what better way to celebrate than with a pair of ODDSIES! Non-Matching Socks?!

Wilson finds True Love. Again.

As I'm sure you know by now, Wilson never does anything by halves; thoroughness is (or should be) his middle name. 

Accordingly, he has done quite a bit of research in preparation for the Eurovision Song Contest on Saturday. 

While studying past shows he came across the song 'Je suis un vrai garçon' which was the French entry in the Dublin Eurovision way back in 1994, sung by Nina Morato. 

Wilson called me in to show me her photo, and she is indeed very pretty — a gamine waif with a cheeky smile. He then announced that he was in love with her. 

'It's not an inappropriate infatuation like it was with Joni Mitchell, New Dad,' he assured me. 'This time it's the Real Thing!'

I quickly performed a calculation in my head: 2014 - 1994 = 20 years.

Busy weekend ahead...

Next Saturday is the Eurovision Song Contest, then the following day is Wilson's birthday. 

His seventh birthday. 

The birthday by which he'd promised his Mum, Mrs Vermilingua, he would be a millionaire.

He is manifestly NOT yet a millionaire and agrees with me that his chances of becoming one within the next five days are vanishingly small.

So, he is distracting himself by drawing up a hugely complex chart on which to score the Eurovision contestants. 

As for his birthday, he told me that he doesn't want to talk about it. 

Bees on honeymoon — do not disturb!

When we arrived at the hotel, Wilson went to check the girls in while they waited in the front garden.

The proprietor was quite surprised when she opened the door to Wilson — partly that he was an anteater, and partly that the guests were bees. Looking at the hotel's sign, I think I can see how the misunderstanding arose… 'Bee & Bee'… 'Honey'…

Anyway, since the reservation had been paid in advance there was no real problem and Polly and Billi were shown to their room. It had an enormous double bed and a vase of fresh flowers which the girls said was all they could have hoped for! 

I think they intend to sleep in the flowers, actually. 

After they were settled in and we were driving home, Wilson confided that he was quite glad the wedding was finally over and he could return to his normal life.

As though his life could ever be considered 'normal' in any meaningful sense of the word...

Honeymoon Hotel...

After the reception the happy couple climbed into the car and, following Wilson's directions, I drove them to their honeymoon hotel. 

The girls sat on the rear parcel shelf while Wilson sat in front with me — partly to help with navigation but mostly to allow the newlyweds some privacy.