We were picking up the track strewn about by another nocturnal raid, and I noticed tables and tables of plants–geraniums and impatiens, mostly–in plastic pots in the next door neighbor’s yard.
U: “Hmm, he must sell those commercially or something…”
J: “He could be a botanist! Like Mr. McGreggor!”
I wracked my brain for a few seconds trying to think of who the hell Mr. McGreggor was–all I could come up with was somebody in the Peter Rabbit stories, and that seemed a little obscure for James.
U: “Who’s Mr. McGreggor?”
J: “You know! He was a botanist! McGreggor…MacGregor…
U: *blank look*
J: “The monk!”
While highly skilled in the art of following James’s somewhat eclectic grasp of the language and even more eclectic grasp of history, it took me a few seconds to get the ‘ol brain to go over this particular jump.
U: “You mean Gregor Mendel?”
J: “Yeah! Him!”
U: “Mister McGreggor?!”
J: “I knew who I meant.”
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