When a game of cards was offered, I was happy to take part – despite my partner (the BF’s father) looking like he’d rather swallow razor blades than have to carry the ditzy blonde.

A couple of hours later, I’m pretty sure he was planning to erect a statue in my honour in the front yard.

You see, a little known Henderson fact is we are the direct progeny of one of the best card sharps ever born.

My paternal grandmother, Beryl, was particularly adept at the game of 500, as well as euchre.

She went about it in two main ways. If you wanted the kitty, it would be over her stone dead body and she would rather hit minus 500 than let anyone else come within cooee of a win.

Oh and you had to slap the cards down on the table like you were trying to swat a tarantula.

My grandparents would host card games every Thursday night with their friends, and my poor mother would get a trick by trick description via the landline every Friday morning.

(It was the 70s – mobiles were still what you put above babies’ cots.)

One time, mum was forced to put down the phone for five minutes to deal with a broken medicine bottle and came back to discover Nana had yet to draw breath. 

She didn’t just play for cattle stations. It was the whole bloomin’ Northern Territory.

Of course, she then passed this take no prisoners approach down to her eldest child so my three siblings and I all grew up being the perfect cards sidekick.

We were like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kids – except we didn’t die at the end of the card game. Well, not unless we looked sidewise at the kitty.