The Calthorpe Arms. 4pm. Sunday. I go to the bar to get some more of the lovely Young’s Summer Zest. Whilst at the bar I am complimented on the beauty of my daughter. The problem? I do not have a daughter.
Initially I thought he was refering to Sally, who is at least petite and was drinking soft drinks. Any actual look that had identified her beauty would have also noted her age being over eighteen and this unlikely to be my duaghter. It turned out that the reference was to Morag, a friend of Magnus who looks so unlike me that and filial connection would have to be via adoption. And four year olds are not allowed to adopt.
He repeated the compliment to me and Morag as he left when he would have had a better chance to work out our relative ages. DO I LOOK THAT OLD! I know I had not shaved and had been out on the lash the night before. Even so. Pah, rubbish beer goggles.