Pure Munchie-Superdam smiled. She didn’t grin. She just smiled.

She could have grinned, but that was likely because, despite all odds, she still had the majority of her teeth.

The Apache syndrome had tempted fate one too many times, she wrote, most thoughtfully. It seemed he wasn’t marking any crescent-shaped hooves in any lady’s armour today.

‘Bugger me dead,’ he said, quite loudly. ‘I knew it was you, old haggis.’

Yes indeed, she smiled, and perhaps did grin as well this time. For what he had spoken of was inherent of the bloodline, and it had once made many men laugh because it seemed to be an inherent thing in the Chewy fandom club that one’s parent, or parents, always seem to, without fail, go back to the root case, or cause.

There are two Fremantle Football clubs, but only one Dockers. There are the Sharks, and blue is more my colour, and there are the Bulldogs, the animal of which may have resembled an old staff sergeant due to that bloody square jaw that kept returning generation after generation. I don’t have lockjaw, but I do tend to make sure I have my story straight, and I do not, under any circumstances, let go of facts when it comes to my exact history… Horrible as it may be.

Perhaps, even slightly boring :)

‘I may have married into something, old mate, but let me be quite clear on why they kept referring to The Chapel when they talk about the Capewell Clan. One does not need to go too far back to see why it was changed.’ She smiled again.

‘Good lord, please don’t bring that up again,’ chuckled the extended Capewell Clan, none of whom knew what she actually referred to was a moment in time someone decided they’d be better off in cloaks than croms.

‘Let it be said, old luv, I never strayed too far from the truth,’ muttered the keeper of the gates.

‘Well, you know, when one’s great-great-great grandparent and a bit decided to go to Wiltshire, and realised his surname could mean a number of different things, least of all smelly bottoms, and the other great great great grandad said he thought it was a cheese, and yet another great great great grandparent said, ‘I can’t read that properly. Should I be kneeling down or losing weight? Or both?’, one tends to let things slide,’ said the aforementioned Munchie. ‘So, despite your lack of wisdomness, and apparent like of winsomeness, everything I recorded was actually true. Are you gonna give the bloody thing back now or not?’

He decided, at that very moment, it was lucky he had decided to look up his own shield.

‘Oh dear,’ he cursed. ‘It may have been a dagger after all, and that’s not good is it?’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Not one you’d want displayed on a coat of arms. Especially on red.’

Not much else needed to be said after that. For after all, even though things may have “looked cool” at the time, it is often revealed they are not. Not really.

You made a bloody mess of it, boyo. Perhaps you should clean it up.