science, cont.

Breaking with tradition once again, I bring you the gist, or nub, of the conversation I had last night with the ex-ex Mr B. Firstly, he informs me that he wishes to be known henceforth as "The Original Mr B" - a title he feels is strictly speaking more accurate. I wondered if this didn't make him sound like Orville Redenbacher,* but he says many's the person who would love to snuggle up on the couch with Orville Redenbacher.

I in my turn think "the original ex-Mr B" is more accurate, but some things are best left unsaid.

As to the trilobites, he assures me once again that he is on the trail of one, but the trail of science is littered with bureaucracy, emails and paperwork. You have to be sure you have an Original. He had his eye, apparently, on a yellow one, which he seems to think was inordinately funny. But I am no longer yellow. His second choice is "a spiky one with cute eyes."

Pause. "It's very spiky."

More to the point, the Original Ex-Mr B is now one of the few people alive to whom I can usefully complain that Papa Baroque - whom readers will recall is currently in hospital with emphysema, low kidney function and a strangely passive attitude - is turning into his own annoying father, or (as some might have it) reverting to the genome. My grandfather died so long ago that no one else I know remembers him. Everyone except Mr Original will have to take it from me.**

* Orville Redenbacher seems to be having a comeback, and concomitant rebranding effort. But don't I remember him having "the original" in his title when I was a kid? Eh?

** This may sound ungrateful. Maybe you had to be there. But more universally, I'd say if you can't use worry as an excuse for kvetching about people, what possible consolation could we glean from this vale of tears?