I've been feeling bad about my father's silver tankard for a while: it's been looking very tarnished. This was the tankard out of which he drank his beer every night: it's got one big dent in it, and various little ones. I hate to think what falls off the outside table or garage bench it may have suffered during its life. Or perhaps these blemishes happened much earlier: this was my maternal great-grandfather's tankard, judging by the WB initials on it: William Barber. I suspect it was a retirement gift when he stepped down from the Midland Railway Police. He kept his truncheon: I have that, in case of ... well, in case I meet the person who tried to extract 317.07 from Autozone this evening, using my credit card number, even though my card was snugly in my possession. An Autozone in Marrero, Louisiana. Since I made a reservation on line yesterday for something next week in New Orleans, I don't think that one has to be brains galore to work that one out.
Anyway, luckily I had already done the obvious thing, and bought some silver polish.
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