When you wishbone upon a star

The best bit about Sunday lunch, when I was growing up as a kid in SW London, was the thought that your future was about to be changed by the successful pulling of a wishbone.
However unprepared you were, if you won, you still had to make a wish.  
My enduring wish was, as my nan subscribed to Titbits and Reveille, that she’d leave the room long enough for me to look through her magazines – or search for the ladies’ underwear section of her Freeman’s catalogue.
I should have known that no wish was ever to be granted as the ominous signs of chicken gravy suddenly splattering over my Sunday best shirt wasn’t that encouraging.
The pulling of the wishbone was an excellent diversion from my parents who would stare like Victorian schoolteachers at my uneaten sprouts.   My parents would watch the wishbone-pulling competition as my nan, with her non-pulling hand, whisked the unwanted sprouts into her many-pocketed housecoat.   Although, always unnerved as to the origins of her next day’s bubble 😊
It was the ancient Romans who invented this tradition and believed it gave them luck.  Sometimes, with my nan’s roast chicken, I think that’s the period in which she’d bought her joint.
We tried pulling a T-bone steak bone one Sunday – I nearly dislocated my little finger.

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