Tales of the follicly challenged

Ottawacker Jr was out in the morning at a birthday party – a tried and trusted formula among his peers of soccer first, pizza and ice cream afterwards. Oh, to be 10 again. Spent the morning doing laundry and catching up on some blips, of which an enormous amount seem to be in my head, not in the cloud.
 
Afternoon saw us going out to Mrs Ottawacker’s brother’s place for a continuation of the birthday week. You have to hand it to her; she is milking this for all it is worth. Especially when you consider it is a minor birthday… Anyway, we drove out to Kanata, and had a lovely afternoon eating cake and playing Telestrations. This confirmed my complete inability to draw a straight line with a ruler. So when the word is “chandelier” and my neighbour guesses “spider on a ceiling”, nobody is surprised.
 
Best line of the day went to Mrs Ottawacker’s nephew Zak, the little gobshite. We were sitting at the table, he directly opposite me. Out of the blue comes “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Ottawacker, but is that a wig?” This is what they teach them at university these days. So out came the anecdotes from Spain. He was serious too. And then, later on, once the bleeding stopped, mortified.
 
Home to more tajine-cuisine.