Son sent me this image of these Big Bottomed Ladies from long ago, dug up in France.
Happy occurrence all round. Son doesn't find it easy to relate to his stitchey old ma, unlike Daughter with whom many chats and discussions are possible.
Son's father was an archaeologist, we spent many a summer in a caravan on a dig, son and daughter gathering shards of pottery and bone, laying them out on a plank in an attempt to sell them to visitors.
Somewhere there is a pic of Son sat on his potty in front of the Finds Hut. Mother was inside preferring to clean mud from finds rather than from Son's nether regions.
The photo was pre-computer so he may be saved from further exposure; at the time he was very exposed to a wind that seemed to blow straight from Siberia onto the Welsh coast. Have no idea of the geographical veracity of that statement, and could care less.
Son is fast approaching 40 now and looks somewhat like father, including the cigarette.
Of course we would have more to talk about if he collaborated with some lass and produced g'children.
Maybe I should be careful what I wish for.