I heard some disturbing news yesterday. My folks (hi mum, hi dad) are on hols, skiing ("spending kids inheritance") on the Costa Del Crime. News that my dad's legs (sponsored by Unigate) have caused consternation in the local populace are as yet unfounded.
Anyway, our youngest received a text from Old Ma Hurley saying that "Grampy's" wallet was stolen. (Yes, like all families, our children can master gadgetry like mobile phones whereas the parents look an aghast like Luddites.)
Now worse things can happen, but let's face it - losing a wallet means my dad will be wearing a black armband for quite some time (I think a minutes silence will be an annual affair). I don't think my dad and his wallet have ever been parted. In fact the last time it was opened was in 1952 (we had our own silver jubilee in 1977 - whilst the Royal street parties went on we lived in hope the wallet might be opened again). My dad and his wallet make Arkwright and his Oxo tin look positively indulgent!
It's not so much theft as the kidnapping of a very old and dear friend.
I have contacted Interpol and told them to look out for thieves in Spain trying to exchange pre-Decimal fivers bearing images of George V with scorch marks* at the local Bureau de Change.
That's love in the nonagenarian community.
The Spanish government meanwhile have announced that the flood of British pounds into the Spanish economy mean that the much debated EU bail-out of the Spanish banks may not now need to happen.
The Portuguese embassy have already invited the Hurleys to holiday on the Algarve next year...
* From the oxy-acetylene burner used to break open the wallet and its chains.