My grandfather loves jokes. I mean, he LOVES them. He has shelves upon shelves of joke books, funny quotes, and compilations of humour (yes, he was raised under the British school system, so you get the extra "u"). He writes it, he recites it, he lives it. He's been on my mind lately and I came across this tidbit that I want to save here before it gets lost. Enjoy.
"The Flying Jogger" story
Approximately at 45 degrees across the street from our house is No.720, nicknamed No.420. . . Its inhabitants were a couple with 8 or 9 or 10 children---I don't know even after having them as neighbours for years--- naughtier than Satan.
One day as I was passing the house, I was surprised by a single jogger landing with a thud hardly a foot ahead of me. Thank God it didn't land on my head. I looked around but couldn't see anyone. I estimated that it must have come from the top floor of No.420, 30 feet above the street level. I speared it on my walking stick, carried it a few yards to our house, dumped it behind a hedge, and waited for a couple of days for some claimant to turn up but when no one came, I dumped the jogger in the garbage van when it visited our street.
A day later, Mr.420 met me and I told him of the incident, saying that I suspected one of his kids. He swore they were angels and it was unthinkable that they would do such mischief. I suggested he line them up wearing their joggers and the one having only one jogger should explain how come. He liked the suggestion and promised to do so. When he met me next, he said: "Bhatti Sahib, the kid is only five years old, so I suggest we excuse him this time." I agreed but told him that the jogger was now in the city garbage dump. "And Mr. 420, it was a size 8 shoe!"