Claire’s great-grandfather died. He had collected works of art throughout his life. On his death, Claire claimed that all she got was a grotty old painting of an ugly woman.
“You should get it valued,” someone said.
“Great balls of fire!” exclaimed the art dealer. “Holy moly! Hell’s bells and buggy wheels! This is a genuine Rembrandt!”
“Great balls of fire!” exclaimed Claire.
She never told a soul about the twenty-five others she’d used for kindling in her log burner.