Whenever “something big” happens in my life – whether it’s good, bad, serious, silly, awful, lovely or ridiculous – I always tell you straight away.
I know you know everything anyway, but if I receive some news or make a discovery or hear some particularly tasty gossip or have an epiphany, I always tell you before I tell anyone else.
You’re always next to me when I tear open the envelope.
Just as in life, in death you will always be the first to know.
I can hear you cackling incredulously at the events of this week, old man.
*sitting in a smoking parlour*
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I say, waiting for your reaction to the news.
“Aha! A twist in the tale!” you reply as you finish reading the evidence.
“Indeed, squire,” I say as I return the papers to their folder and file them away.
“And so: the plot thickens,” you say, knowingly.
“Like the gravy,” I add.
“Yes. Just like the gravy.”
Then we clink our whisky glasses and laugh smugly, knowing that we were right all along and we are fucking untouchable.