Friday, June 16, 2006

There's A Bomb In My Bag!

Today it's my mum's 70th birthday. Needless to say, there are lots of memories involving Mum but the one that sticks out most right now is the one involving the bomb.

There was a period during the 70s when the IRA were sending letter bombs to English addresses. I can't remember exactly what we were told to look out for but one day, a small parcel dropped through our letterbox and Mum was convinced it was a letter bomb. The writing was similar to the writing they'd shown on the news and with Clancey being an Irish name, she thought we'd be a prime target. I'm not quite sure what he logic was there but, there you go, that's my mum.

If you think you're in possession of a bomb, the sensible thing to do would be to contact the police. And that's exactly what she did. Only she didn't go out to a phone box to call them, she put the bomb in her shopping bag and went off to the bus-stop so that she could take the bomb to the police station.

The bag was held at arm's length in front of her and when she got on the bus, she placed it carefully on the seat next to her and told the conductor not to touch it "because there's a bomb in there." Talk about the nutter on the bus!

The bus Mum was on stops right opposite the police station. Handy, wouldn't you think? But did Mum get off there? No. She took the bus two stops further before she got off. Why? Because she wanted to take the bomb to her own mother's house first.

"I've got a bomb, Mum," she said, on arriving there.

"Well what the bleedin' hell do you want me to do wiv it?" Nan asked. "Don't bring it in here. Take it to the police station."

"But I've just been passed the police station."

"Then you'll just have to go back."

Off she poodled again, back to the police station, bag still held at arm's length.

The policeman on duty was very kind and after putting the parcel in a bucket of sand, told her she'd done the right thing. He obviously didn't know she'd been on a roundabout tour first.

Later that day a policeman knocked at our door.

"It's about the parcel you brought to us," he said. "We had bomb specialists come down and open it. It's a lighter. A Ronson lighter."

Dad had sent his lighter away to be repaired but hadn't told Mum. Why would he? Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't be interested.

All's well that ends well, as they say, but it's a story Mum has never been able to live down, bless her. But every family has to have its stories and let's face it, without them this blog wouldn't exist.

~~+~~

1 Comments:

At 12:34 am, August 29, 2006, Anonymous Phallus Dei said...

I find it uncanny that Gary Moore looks like your dear mother.
I always thought he was effeminate.

 

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