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Thursday, January 05, 2006


He thought he said pipe and drums.
He was such an old decrepid fool, even if his daughter tried to convince him otherwise.
It was an easy mistake to make, she'd said, but he should have known. He just didn't listen.
Regardless of what people thought, his hearing was still more than adequate; it was his mind. It often started to wander, so he covered his tracks by pretending he'd misheard what they said.
Even a senile idiot like him should have known that a little kid wouldn't be interested in pipe and drum music. He'd been talking about bass and drums or drums and bass or whatever they called that racket nowadays. As usual, he'd only heard what he wanted to hear, so he'd disappeared into the spare room and re-emerged triumphantly with some dusty, faded 33s of military tattoos. Stupid.
But it still didn't excuse his grandson's rudeness. Rolling his eyes and saying those viciously pointed words and storming off like that. It hurt almost as much as his own stupidity.
That wasn't why his daughter had caught him crying though, and he was too slow in explaining to stop her castigating her child. No; his tears were of thankfulness and no little pride for the way his grandson had come back and apologised like a man, looking him in the eye and hugging him affectionately before insisting on putting the gramophone on and feigning interest in marching bands playing 'Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines'.
"Right then," he'd added with an impish smile, "I'm off to get a tattoo. You like them too, don't you?"
He's older than he looks, that one, he thought to himself.


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