Family, it has been oft observed, is among the most important connections in one’s existence. For better or for worse. It would seem that the majority of those residing in the colonies are optimists agreeing with the first sentiment. At least if the nigh on relentless adverts for so-called ‘genealogy apps’ are anything to go by. One can scarcely get through a televised Cricket match or a BBC News broadcast without being exposed to at least one grinning, oafishly affible so and so claiming to be well and truly gobsmacked by the results of a commercialized, and in no way flawed or vague, perish the thought, mail-order DNA test, which presents itself on their their mobile telephonic device. Watson and Crick would be so proud!
It must work too, because to hear them tell it, everybody’s ancestor, throughout all history, have been ruddy swell characters, with nary a black spot between them. Even the ones who seem like they might be villains are not all that bad. Like the one right delusional sort who was chuffed to bits to discover that the original bearded of the family name had been a mite naughty during the time of Prohibition, boasting that it helped her find her sense of adventure. Nor do is there ever anyone who discovers that the one with whom they share blood and name was in some way connected to the North American, or indeed British, Slave Trade. One may say miraculously, considering that both chugged merrily along, with at least tacit
government support for a few hundred years respectively but such is the power of an app. Apparently.
And, of course, as would only be expected, everyone’s pedigree is close to impeccable as it is possible to get in these sad times, not a bore or a wastrel in to be found. They are all descended from monarchs, tycoons and inventors with nary a dog washer, tailor or chimney sweep in the lot. Or maybe that is just my family.