Where did it all go wrong for her I hear you ask? As of course I do not possess riches beyond anyone's wildest dreams, and I couldn't be described as posh in anyway. It's that old gender chestnut, yes and alas, I'm related mainly through the female line.
All of this wonderful information was sprung upon me a few years ago and I have it on very good authority it is all true.
No surprises really, but I also have more than my fair share of family rogues.
One of my clan, a Mr. John (Jack) Shrimpton was a highwayman in the late 18th century. He eventually came to a sticky end when he murdered a night watchman, but he seems to have been kind on occasion too.
This isn't an artists impression of him but I figure he may have looked something like this. He used to work a stretch of road between Maidenhead and Reading called the Thicket, a particularly notorious and dangerous road. Seemingly people used it regardless and it was one of the busiest roads in the country with up to 90 coaches a day.
Legend has it Jack met with some bailiffs one day who were carting off some poor farmer to jail for the debt of £6.00. Jack joined with them to the next ale house and offered to pay off the man's debt, which he did. But he then waylaid the bailiffs on their way home and relieved them of his £6.00 with an additional 40 shillings to boot.
The funny thing that has prompted me to write about Jack is that I have just found out there is a bar named after him in Gerrards Cross, Buckinghamshire. Obviously I must make a 'pilgrimage' there and soon.
I wonder if I'll get a drink on the house? I expect that will depend on whether he robbed the owners way back in the day.
Anyone offended by a corny double-entendre please look away now.
A bright welcome to Laurie, my latest Google Connect follower who blogs here