As my mother and I were pushing the twin stroller out of Puzzletown the other day, we held the gate open for a tiny white-haired woman, perhaps eighty, eighty-five years old. She peered into the stroller and asked in a prim, upper-class English accent “Twins?”
“I was married to a twin,” she smiled. “He and his brother were in the Air Force. They used to pull all sorts of tricks, taking each other’s places and so on.”
“That could make for some interesting stories.” I imagined two identical Englishmen in crisp RAF uniforms, twitching their noses mischievously.
“Well, they were Catholic, not Jewish, but for some reason one of them was circumcised, so I never had a problem.”