Last night, my mom picks up a black feather (leftover from costume-mania), holds it like a quill, and then, in the worst fake British accent since John Malkovich himself...
Mom: "Charles Dickens heee-uh." (snickers)
Then again.
Mom: "Dear Tiny Tim, it's so unfortunate you shall not walk. Perhaps in the next life." (snickers)
And again.
Mom: "Dear Martha, George heee-uh. I shall not be home for forty-two nights. I'm having me teeth made." (snickers)
She's so cheeky!
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