Danny Boy

I have been given the moniker Danny Boy, though when signatory in frequent matters of a somewhat official nature, I flourish a splendidly looped Daniel Boyd-Blatherstone. Citizens of the colonies - typically awed even by ersatz royalty - are loath to exhibit outwardly their enchantment with the Crown and feign to deny it. I admit, however, to being a cheeky bloke of no especial renown, unless you count an arm unmatched for roll tossing among my peers. On many a painful occasion of ribald hilarity, I have lobbed a stale petit pain at a cheerfully accommodating chum, only to have an hysterical nanny take me by the ear and toss me unceremoniously to the kerb. All is fair, I suppose, in lob and war. My society became less in demand, particularly due to these scrappy luncheon escapades, when it was only the domestics and we. Sympathetic, and in no-wise innocent-bystander friends were summarily overruled by parents given to put implicit trust in the lies of their help. My compatriots-in-crime chafed, their pleas and pleases trodden upon by unyielding familial tyrants, they who had apparently forgotten their own youthful designs in mischief and mayhem. Time has passed since those wobbly days of infancy - days of carefree abandon. Needless to say (but I shall say it, nevertheless), I am now a strapping youth of no mean aspect, a paragon of grown-up-ed-ness, displaying more than a trifling modicum of emotional maturity, which is an arguably singular personal trait for one who remains rather youngish in the matter of chronological age. I am the oldest person of my age with whom I have the pleasure of being acquainted.