"Oh, no! It's the mirabillus crocaeus spell that entranced Romularo in the Cavern of Dark Secrets! Harry, whatever shall we do?"
("What kind of a spell is that? What was the Cavern of Dark Secrets? Who's Romularo? What are they doing with that broom? Why's Alan Rickman dressed like he's going to a funeral? What's going on?")
One disadvantage of being around The Youf (Robert's 23, William's 21) is the sad realisation that Mr Gingerbread and I are getting old. We could've gone to the beer festival, but quite frankly, it was chilly and I'd already put on my slippers and Mr Gingerbread had a sniffle. This outbreak of wussieness was only underlined by the fact that at the grand ol' age of thirty-six, this excites me
|Gingerbread hearts! Popcorn! Macaroons! Liquorice laces! Toffee apples!|
Altogether now: Nom, nom, nom!
|No, these aren't my flower pots - they're tankards from the local beerfest|
Sensing a sorry lack in our general education (and, it was hinted more than once, a dire ignorance of what was Cool and In), Robert and William took it upon themselves to educate us in Popular Youf Culture. Whilst single-handedly updating the waiting world on their statuses via a variety of high-tech iGadgets, the Brother Gingerbread showed Mr Gingerbread and me a heap of YouTube videos to rescue us from our Fuddy-Duddiness. I am now au fait with Rebecca Black, The Lonely Island, Twitter and Angry Birds. In short: I rock once more.
On Monday, Mr G and I sat at home in our big, empty house and experienced premature Empty Nest Syndrome. Luckily, Robert had left us a little pile of coins on the coffee table as a memento of their stay.