It is the sort of conversation I only really have with my father. We sit here tonight in Shipston. With the Mrs having taken Joshua back to Bristol, I am with the old man for a couple of days. We are killing time ahead of the BBC news. I write the odd article, he reviews old family papers, something that is the focus of his life these days. Have I discussed the Ightham murder of 1908 on these pages? No? Well, maybe another time.
Of course I knew what my father was fishing for. But I could not resist. "Nottingham" I said. "Where is that?" he asked, assuming that it was an obscure hill station established by the Britishers somewhere in the sub-continent. "Near Derby" I replied, "on the river Trent." "But where in India is she from? He persisted. "Nowhere. She was born in Nottingham, she is as British as you and I"
Alright, alright said he "where are her parents from?" I replied truthfully. "!Nottingham." He laughed. Game over. The in-laws have been in the grim North for 50 years so I reckon they are pretty solid Nottingham-ites but the little game was played out. I told him that they were born in Chennai, what he and I might call Madras.
He headed back to his papers, me to answering dull emails.