Another entry into The True History Of The Drake Gang was written today, when our little family posse begged, borrowed, and Amazon Primed our outfits for a Prader-Willi Syndrome party with a rootin’ tootin’ theme.
My girl met up with some jeans-wearing gene-sharing buddies with the same chromosome disorder as her. They did some colouring in then tucking in, all the while striking up and rekindling their shy, little friendships.
My boy behaved impeccably, by which I mean he impeccably re-enacted the horse punching scene from Blazing Saddles.
There were a few no-shows, so the party was under-populated compared to previous years. (Anyone who didn’t send their excuses will be rounded up, coralled, and forced to eat humble cow pies).
But it didn’t really matter. My cowboy and cowgirl were happy, as was my sombrero-sporting husband, Sleepy Gonzales.
Best of all, I discovered the cooling delights of having air-conditioned lower portions thanks to the fan inflating my horse’s arse.
Yee, and indeed, haw!