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?