The Welsh side of the family visited this weekend for the ritual exchange of Christmas and birthday presents. As always, my mother and uncle spent most of their time together reminiscing about "the old days". My uncle has a particularly sharp wit, honed across several decades of being a history teacher and, usually, the brightest person in the room. My aunt is the whetstone upon which that wit is most readily sharpened. You'd think, after 36 years of marriage, experience would have suggested that taking archaeology classes when she knows stuff all about British history (by virtue of the fact that she's American) and is married to a man who knows far too much about it, might be to open herself up to more target practice than should strictly be legal. No.
Today, in regaling my mother with tales from the trowel's edge, my aunt was spooling through the gazillion photos of things archaeological on her phone - most of which were either unidentified or whose purpose now evades her. She came across one of these and pronounced: "Oh, now that was near Llantwit Major: it's a World War II Pill Box I think." In response to which the title phrase of this post, on an inevitable wave of sarcasm, rolled across the room ...
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