Quote:
Humour, the gift of laughter; it's a real flashpoint with Margret and me. Most of the two billion times a day I say something creasingly funny, Margret will fail to notice entirely. Completely. Drops into a noiseless void. I'm still not sure whether this is better or worse than the only other reaction in her repertoire, which is to stare straight at me, pause for a second, and then say - as if to a small child - "Was that supposed to be funny?".
Margret herself, on the other hand, is often rendered unable to stand by her own gags. Something of an achievement, as - whether she delivers them to me alone, or to a room full of friends and acquaintances in general - Margret's gags have only one basis: Mil has a small *****. (Oh, and let me state right now, by the way, that I do not have a small *****. It is huge - colossal, in fact. I need to have special pants made and everything. Yes, I do. I do. Oh - bugger off the lot of you.) I'll say (for example), talking of some electronic item, "I like things small and thin." Margret jumps right in with "Yeah, it's a pity I don't, isn't it?" Then she slumps, holding her stomach against the strain and laughs until her nose runs.
