Sitting in the queue at immigration far too early one Saturday morning – actually yesterday, waiting for Jonah’s new green card to come through, feeling slightly jaded after a fun night out. As we sit heavy-lidded on the yellow bucket seats in that very odd immigration centre, Mr PartlyCloudy and I while away the time by reviewing the previous night’s very fun social shenanigans at a post-summer drinks night full of Scottish food and nice wine. We’d got chatting to a lovely couple, one of whom had asked me:

“Now then, what do you call someone who’s from Cornwall?”

To be fair it was rather an odd question, so instead of stating the obvious (“Cornish”) the best answer I could give was “Morwenna”. Much hilarity ensued, and if the lighting had been better I think this would’ve been one of those rare moments when the usuallly rather smooth Mr PC could be found blushing.

Fast-forward back to our hungover Saturday morning queue and Jonah asks what all the sniggering’s about, so we try out the question on him.

First answer: “Grandpa”
Second attempt: “Farmer”

Mr PC rubs away the tears and with a sigh checks the slow-moving ticket numbers on the screen: “I might see if I can put in for a new family”