The festive season can be a trying time for all of us, dear Reader, and I am no exception.

As my seasonal gift to you*, let me lift the curtain a little and give you a glimpse of life chez the Lambs.**

Every year the Lamb clan gathers in our ancestral home, buried far from prying eyes, deep in Burnham Wood.

Here, dear Reader, is our annual family photo.


On the left there you’ll see Billy ‘the Devil’ Lamb (released only that morning after the arson incident at the old explosives factory); Edgar ‘Fop’ Lamb; Pa ‘Safecracker’ Lamb and ‘Babykins’; Great-Uncle Herbert (wanted on 5 continents and master of disguise); Ma ‘Roast Potatoes’ Lamb (seated); Mary ‘Had a Little’ Lamb; Jo ‘Whiskers’ Lamb; The Twins; Shiny the cat, and in the foreground, Ratty, the family pet for many centuries years.

If you look closely, dear Reader, you may just be able to make out my own elegant form in the mirror behind them (using a technique I first suggested to dear Jan many moons ago at that disastrous Arnolfini wedding do).

After the usual merriment involving the Twins doing their traditional flitting-across-the-room trick behind us while Babykins pretends to be dead and Billy plays with the brandy pudding, the family finally settled down to a quiet afternoon of charades.

I decided that this was the moment, dear Reader, to announce to my family that I would soon be casting aside my academic shroud and launching myself into the entrepreneurial void.

Dear Reader.

The news was not greeted with applause.

No, dear Reader.

It was greeted by the Silence of the Lambs.


*I still await yours to me, dear Reader.

**Put aside that copy of DSM V, my dear: some things are beyond scientific explanation.


6 thoughts on “The Silence of the Lambs

    1. It is Great-Great-Great Grandma “Sew & Sew” Lamb, the only survivor of the 1852 All-World Embroidery Championships.

      Your request for fewer flimb and less flamb has been noted.

  1. Frankly, my dear, given the family history, the flowers on the carpet seem more out of character than the ancestral head of great grandma so and so mounted on the wall with the other woodland trophies.Good to see she has been given prominence of place. Forgive the indelicacy, but might it be the family crest on what may be a coat of arms? I speak in heraldic terms, not (shudder) literal ones (that could give new meaning to “embracing your past”).

    Or is that sinister head simply floating in the rafters like a familiar ghost? Hmm…once again the plot thickens.

    I have my theories about that carpet.

    1. How clever of you to recognise the Head of the Lamb Clan, Don(na) Lamb, my dear. Indeed, the carpet was one of her triumphs.

      (They are not just any old flowers: they are marigolds).

      1. Whew. I am afraid my natural tendency for paranoia got the better of me; I thought the carpet might have come into the house from the boot of a Ferrari. I will speculate no further.

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