Jimmy G.

Jimmy G., a proud 85 winters old, loves Friday. One of his many daughters stuff him into the car, and drive him down the town to collect his pension. Then, into Joes for a few small ones around 10am, Jameson usually but Powers will do at a pinch. Tall tales are told, shared with Pa and Mick O B, craggy ancient sheep farmers (pint of Guinness and a bottle of Smithwicks, in that order). Jimmy G. inspires that overused cliche-"twinkly eyed old geezer", but solely in the singular, cataracts having occluded the other one. Home to the missus before the Angelus Bell has finished pealing, and a small fry for the dinner. (Lunch only arrived to these shores around 1985). Next Friday, I think I'll join them. For Medicinal Purposes Only.