Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Saturday, 18 May 2019
Sins of the father
My first consciously brother-free weekend begins today. When I die, our family name dies with me. If I had a title, that would die too, but 'Mr.' isn't going anywhere.
Today we are meeting a dear friend and her two adult children to celebrate her birthday with lunch. When his uncle dies, her son will inherit the title of 'Lord' from one of the oldest families in Britain. So old in fact, that they were well-established when Shakespeare mentioned them in one of his Henry plays.
The above image is the heraldic device for my family name (no, not Stephenson), but I can only think that it is associated with distant relatives who did rather better than my lot, who emanated from the East End of London some time in the late 18th, early 19th century, having founded a brewery which still flourishes under a different name today. It was absorbed by one of the giants quite recently.
My Great Grandfather gambled the family business away in one bet on one night, then spent the rest of his life drowning his sorrows in someone else's beer.
I think I see a pattern of family traits emerging...