Aunt Daisy's Son

He seems to have gone for ages and when he returns he is red in the face, whether for the cold air or embarrassment is not easy to tell.
“Erm..”, he mumbles, “do you remember Auntie Daisy, boys? Come and meet her son, he is in the parlour.” So we follow him.

“Hello brothers”, is how he welcomes us.

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Everything seems to make sense. We have a vague recollection of a voluptuous peroxide blonde who used to live next door to us before we moved to our present house. The first time we met her she had come to borrow a cupful of sugar. She had then become a regular visitor, strangely enough when mum was out shopping. Mother left after an almighty row with father and the visits increased.
“I’ll explain later”, dad says sheepishly.

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The ‘son’ is safely tucked in bed in a spare room and we are having a confab in the kitchen.

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It is now St. Stephen’s day and it is eleven o’clock. We have all slept soundly after ‘drowning our sorrows’ with double malt whisky.
We  are more inclined to believe dad’s words as we find that the safe has been emptied, the house ransacked and our unexpected ‘guest’ disappeared.
“A small price to pay”, states dad philosophically.

Yet we know that he is secretly relieved that his losses are covered by insurance.