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On Loud Mine

4 Dec

We are a loud family.  Somewhere in the region of why talk when you can yell?  Even better if you all yell at once. 

Some are born loud; some achieve loudness; and some have loudness thrust upon them.  I was number three and have become number two.  I’ll never forget how stunned I was when I met the Hub’s family en mas.  It wasn’t en masse because half the siblings were in one country and half in another; but it was as noisy as if all six were jumping up and down on my head singing 76 Trombones and accompanying themselves with seventy-six trombones.

Mama Hub was as loud as any of them; the only exception was Papa Hub who, in all the years I knew him (not enough) never said a thing that wasn’t wise; and sometimes never said a thing.  He didn’t believe in wasting his words (or his breath: they are also an opinionated family, mostly in the nicest possible way).

My boys take after their father’s side of the family on his mother’s side, but they have a double dose of opinion from their immediate parents.

Today, all four of us were talking at once and the telly was on as well; my complaint about the noise led to an animated discussion about how loud a family we are – and by ‘we’ I really mean ‘they’.  Tory Boy said, ‘Let me put it this way: when our surname is used in other languages it translates as ‘loud speakers’.’


If you fancy a poem about nether regions, check out my other blog.

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