The old man has a quirk that bothers me. It's not anything criminal. It's just, well, quirky.
He wrote me an e-mail today, asking me to remind him to write some "cheques." His preferred spelling of "cheques" irritates me for no good reason. I know I shouldn't let it get to me.
But please. Where does he think we are? In the middle of Provence?
He might.
On occasion, he does develop a pronounced French accent. "Ah, mon cheri," he'll whisper between kisses up and down my arm, "come with me to zee boudoir."
Somehow he's convinced himself that this accent helps get me "in the mood."
Despite my protestations, he will persist. "I zee the lovelight in your eyes, mon cheri. Now come with me."
I usually end up going with him, hoping that this will be the time that I get to watch reruns of "The Addams Family."
