His breath smells of beef crisps and cheap , and I should scold him, because he has obviously been to the pub.
How many times have I told him that my magic will only slow aging for so long?
I worry about his , but he refuses to his diet.
“I’m five hundred and thirty three,” he always says.
“That’s a mighty stretch for any man, and I’d rather die happy with a bacon roll in my belly than live miserably on boiled and rocket .”