They didn’t want Gran.
She’s been rejected, booted oot.
I tried to organise a salon des Refusés, right there, on the spot.
But it was too cold. And sad. And desolate.
And dejected, rejected artists hurriedly packed away their bubble-wrapped disillusions into nearby automotive vehicles designed to take them back to their cold, lonely Homes of doom.
My main concern right now is how to gently break the news to Paddy that his days on the wall of our living room are numbered.
Knowing him, he will have something to say about being booted out of the spot…