This morning I trimmed my beard, and apparently some of the hairs escaped both the newspaper I placed over the sink and notice by my presbyopic eyes. A short while later the Reverend Mother gently chided me for leaving a hairy sink. “Face it,” she said good-naturedly, “you’re a slob.”

“Be precise,” I said. “I’m a hairy slob.”

“Ok,” she said, “to be precise, you’re a big, hairy slob.”

“Still not quite there,” I said. “I’m your big, hairy slob.”

“Yes, you’re my big, hairy slob.”

And what can be better than that?

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