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Alex's Gran and Mordant, last year
Well it's not about looks, is it? It's about personality. Sitting here on-line in the twlight home for the utterly demented, Brighton and Hove branch, that my grandson was happy enough to pay for before he went into rehab, I'm looking at all these slabs of male meat that are disporting themselves on the beach with a jaundiced eye. Because who have they killed, really? Probably no one. Back in my day, we all liked a man to have blood on his hands before he had any ideas about getting into our petticoats. Alex's grandfather's attentions in the marital bed were, in all honesty, a bit hard to deal with - I remember the time wen he approached me, seething, dressed like Superman, when he jumped off the wardrobe and hurt his leg, but, all credit to the man, he didn't do anything to me that he wouldn't have done to a German spy.
I admired his conviction, in other words, even if he looked terrible, and there's your answer, young lady.
I know this is supposed to be low snark but shut up Granny or I'll confiscate your gin.
Not the gin, surely?
Not the gin. |
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