There exists a certain subtype of elderly gentleman who cultivates a dogged slyness, wryness, and generally boyish conspiratorialiness which he nevers fails to impart to the younger generation on the slightest provocation. He habitually wears a wrinkled grin which belies an otherwise crusty demeanor, and, as he speaks, creeps ever closer to his interlocutor until he eventually delivers his point -- or, most likely, punchline -- with an enormous upper-body gesture aimed directly at one or other of the same interlocutor's ears. Where does this subtype dwell, you ask? He dwells nowhere, but roams the ins and outs of existence in a pickup with 370,000+ miles on it he's owned for 27 years ("And I've only got two payments left"), and stops for nothing. Except gas. And cigarettes.
And thus ends a belated and dismal attempt to channel a slightly better-adjusted latter day Thackeray.
And reminder to self to write on Holst/Keats connection.
