The Ministry of Mis-information

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I decide that my brain is over loaded with extraneous distractions. BBC America's news broadcast blasts from next door as Nonna catches up with the world. Pokemon fly in every direction followed swiftly by their child masters. Everything is far too busy.

“Where am I den?” I nip into Nonna with a cup of reviving tea late in the afternoon.
“You’re in the family room.”
“I mean …..where am I?”
“In America.”
“No……what is the date today?”
“So dey’re over then?”
“What’s over?”
“The Olympics.”
“I don’t think so. They’ve only just started.”
“O.k……so you are turn it on for me then please.”

I turn on the telly and whizz back to the kitchen to continue cooking.

“Ooo is it den?” asks Nonna waving at the wall. I put down the onion and nip into the family room still clutching the cleaver for safety. I look at the walls decorated floor to ceiling with my children's creations.

“Do you mean who drew it?” I bellow. I wonder if I should go and search for her hearing aide?
“No. Who it is?”
“Mario or Luigi, I'm not quite sure.”
“One the characters from one of their games.”
“It's not im den?”
“You know?”
“Er ……wot is is name again?”
“Who was de original one?”
“Original what?”
“The first president?”
“George Washington?”
“Ah yes, such an English name isn't it? It's im isn't he?”
“Er……I don't think so. I doubt if they'd be motivated to draw anything so conformist?”

Whilst I stare at the wall awaiting inspiration, Nonna turns her attention back to the telly. She is my direct source of information about the Olympics.

“So…..did you know he is out?”
“Who is out?”

I turn to face the screen too.

I see advertisements, very loud ones.

“Ooo wot's is name again.”
“Er….. which sport were you watching?”
“Glitter something.”
“Gold medalist?”
“No……dah criminal.”
“Which criminal? A drug user?”
“Underage sports?”
“No. I know! Gary Glitter.”
“Gary Glitter?”
“Yes he's out of jail.”

Please will someone lock me up, preferably in a padded cell.

“Ask er?”
“Ask who? Ask who what?”
“Ah! dere she is!” My daughter appears with armfuls of Webkins. “Tell me, ooo is dat,” she points with a querulous finger and taps the paper on the wall.
“George Washington,” she beams with confidence.
“Really dear? Are you quite sure? How did you know that?” I ask bewildered.
“Coz it looks like him,…. kinda, and it's got his name on the back.”
“Well I never, I must be slipping.”
“Don't worry,” beams Nonnna, “it appens to us all as we get older.”

Move on over Methuselah!

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