A colleague posted an update to Facebook to say that she’d been descended on suddenly by in excess of twenty relatives, none of whom had heard of Jimi Hendrix.
I shall pause, now, while you get your breath back.
How? How, I thought, and quite apart from one’s ars being longer than rita’s vita’s brevis, could one not have heard of the apparently-not-quite-so-immortal James Marshall De Hendrix?
It brought to mind an occasion in, oooh, 1987, I think it was, when I found myself as a graduate student in the college bar, explaining to an audience of undergraduates that there had been, in living memory, a coin with the face value of three old pence, which was bronze and dodecagonal.
My young audience, to a man (and woman) refused to believe me. “You’re making it up,” they said. It was only when I had called in the college barman to arbitrate that they believed me (the college barman being the only person there present older than me, and seen, of course, as the ultimate arbiter and fount of all knowledge and … er … whatever it was).
It was then that I decided that I really should finish writing up my thesis and get a job.