B: The Welsh Robber

The whole family - border collie included - and virtually every
material possession we owned was miraculously stuffed into our green
Mini, which Dad was pointing in the general direction of a holiday in
Anglesey on some no-mark B-road at about 40mph.

Inevitably, I started to complain about a hunger of
starving-African-child proportions. My mum, an organisational genius,
would certainly have made plentiful sandwiches. But either they had run
out, or movement sufficient to find them was rendered impossible by
overpacking.

Ever vigilant, Dad spotted a greasy roadside snack-van, pulled up and
purchased a jumbo hotdog.

Even more inevitably, I took one bite and said, "I don't want any
more."

He was livid. It had cost a quid (a lot in those days). Seething, and
already filled with Mum's copious cheese baps, Dad force-fed himself
the unwanted product of al fresco catering.

He bottled up his anger and resentment about this incident. It simmered
and gnawed away inside for a while.

One thing I'll say for him, he never took it out on me.

He got to exorcise his demon. On the same B-road, on the way to the
same destination, a full TWELVE MONTHS LATER, he caught sight of the
very same hotdog-seller. He wound down his window and, still
controlling the car, stuck his head out, raising it above roof level,
yelling . . .

"YA WELSHHH ROBBERRRRRRRR!"