My grandfather, Martin, was a good-for-nothing layabout wastrel who shirked the least amount of labour, unless it resulted in the immediate reward of a drop of ardent spirit. Despite these character flaws, he was known to make a violin or two during brief bouts of sobriety – the magnificence of which we shall never see the likes of again. At a time when other violin-makers were using lemon peels to design the shape of their f-holes, my grandfather had the ingenious idea to instead use oranges, which gave a much sweeter sound. All over the land, my grandfather's violins are desperately sought-after. I can't even have a pint in the pub without someone coming up to me and asking, "Excuse me, are you Martin the luthier's kin?"

Explanation: my grandfather's name is not really Martin, but the bit about the shape of f-holes being based off a peeled orange is a real theory, although it has had doubt cast on it. In this story, the narrator's grandfather, who is kin because they are related, is a luthier: one who makes string instruments, traditionally lutes. Thus, our narrator is in fact Martin the luthier's kin – a phrase which sounds an awful lot like the name of a wonderful man.