Well. Chicken butt.

Two men are walking slowly across a bridge in London. They have just been for a lunch at the company they used to work at. The company that was their s until they were retired.

They had a great time at the dinner. They caught up with the old codgers, and told the youngsters what hey should be doing.

“You know what?” said one to the other.
“Christmas makes me remember how much fun it was to be a kid. I mean, if I had been a kid I wouldn’t let you get away with saying ‘what’.”
“What? I mean, how do you mean?”
“Well we used to have this thing of if anyone said ‘what’ you said ‘chicken butt’.”
“It’s strange, the way these things occur to you.”
“In what way?”
“Well. A million people have said ‘what’ to me since I was a child but that’s the first time I’ve thought about that since I was a youth.”
“But that’s what memory is like. When you think of something things that are near them in your memory become more available.”
“That’s true I suppose. But you know what I’ve been thinking?”
“Chicken butt. No I’ll let that one slide. What I was going to say was that now when we look back we remember things with rose coloured glasses. We remember life as though it was in the movies. Hitchcock said ‘movies are life with the boring bits cut out’ and he was right except memory is the same.”

“And my question,” he went on, “is why don’t we think about it at the time? We love life as it was. But we don’t remember to love it as it’s going by.”

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