I’m Robbo the Port-Swiller and I am so completely dead.

This past Sunday, Mrs. Robbo took the younger gels off to RFEC early because they had choir.  I followed along with the eleven year old a little while later.  The gel was decked out in a pretty dress, nice shoes and a long coat.  She had also brushed her hair very nicely.

As we came into the downstairs hall of RFEC, I noticed three older fellahs chatting over at one side.  I’ve known all of them for years and waived as we came by.  They all suddenly stopped chatting and stared at the gel, largely, I believe because they simply did not recognize her.  Eyebrows went up.  Jaws dropped.  I smiled weakly and shrugged.

What is it with gels that they suddenly seem to “pop” from children into young ladies?  I had thought it was only my own imagination that the eldest had suddenly shot up like a weed, got curvey and, em, started protruding in, em, womanly places.  Evidently, it isn’t  just me.

I will say, being as objective as I can be, that the gel is, in fact, staggeringly beautiful, and shows every sign of getting even more so.   It is at times when I’m contemplating this that I find myself thankful that she has such a, shall we say, Cromwellian temperment: It may be the only thing that keeps the boys from swarming her like bees.

* I usually invite fellow port-swillers to spot the quote.  This time, I’ll just give it to you.  Death of Bromosil in Bored of the Rings:  “‘Ye doom is ycomme true,’ he groaned.  ‘O, tell the Lacedomecians to damn the torpedoes.’  Then noisily shaking a large rattle, he expired.”