There goes Mick again. Silly old bugger. Thinks he’s Prince Charming or something, the way he carries on with the Murphy sisters over the road. Mind you, they’re as dopey as him, fluttering their silly old lashes and mincing about, pretending that they’re still young and pretty. Young and pretty. Bah! Had my pick of them in my youth. No good thinking about those days. Look at him. Shiny shoes and bloody arty- farty walking stick, with its twirly knob. Yes. I suppose I am jealous. He’s handing Daisy a rose. Saw him out in his garden this morning. Should have been watching the toast, it burned, serves me right. Time I got a new decent bloody toaster, the popup sort that don’t burn. He was singing to himself. Sings so loud the whole street can hear him. Needs a hearing aid, has a hearing aid, but he’s too bloody proud to use it. He was out there this morning watering his precious plants. Loves them like he loves that silly dog, old, blind and just as useless as him. I should talk. Useless, bah! We’re all bloody useless at our age.