I visited my parents last weekend. As usual, they were in top form, and freshly tanned from their recent holiday.
Mum: It was lovely. We went paragliding - you know, with waterskis.
Me: Isn't Dad afraid of heights?
Mum: Weeeeell. It was on my bucket list.
Me: Uh huh.
Mum: He got over it.
Me: I see.
Dad: (giggling in the other room) Did she tell you about what happened in the airport?
Mum: Shh, you!
It turns out that my parents got off the plane and wandered around for a while trying to find the bus depot. The conversation apparently went along the these lines:
Dad: Right, so we're looking for bus number 10.
Mum: (brightly) Okay!
Dad: Um. These buses end at number 9, but there's another couple over there, so let's have a look to see if it's one of those.
Mum: What's the number 10 in Spanish?
Dad: What?
Mum: The number 10. What is it? We could ask someone where it is.
Dad: We're... we're in Rhodes, honey.
Mum: Oh. So we are.
Dad: I... I don't even... just let me handle this, okay?
Mum: (totally unabashed) Sure, whatever you think!
The worst part is, this is a totally normal conversation for them. My parents, ladies and gentleman! They're here all week! Tip your waitress, try the veal.
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