The Friends of Charles Darwin

Conversation with my parents last night:

Dad: How many members have you got in that Bernard Darwin thing of yours now? …I mean Charles Darwin.
Me: Eight-hundred and ninety-eight. We haven't had any new members for a whole week, which is unusual. I think they're all waiting for one more person to join so they can be number 900.
Dad: [Gestures at himself and Mum, nodding enthusiastically.]
Me: What, you want to join?
Dad & Mum: Yes please!
Mum: Can I be number 900?
Dad: Go on, it's her birthday in a fortnight; I don't mind being number 899.
Me: But is Charlie your Darwin, mum?
Mum: Oh yes!
Me: You have to say it!
Dad & Mum: Charlie is my Darwin!
Me: You're in!

I think my mum is pretty impressed to finally have some initials after her name after 70 years (minus two weeks) on this planet.

I very nearly didn't let my dad (who is a golf nut) become a member: Bernard is very much my dad's Darwin. That's Bernard Darwin, the grandson of Charles Darwin, who helped his grandfather experiment on worms, and who grew up to become a famous golf writer when my dad was a boy. But I reckon I'm entitled to a spot of nepotism.