— I think I’ve taken things as far as I can, and need to pass the baton on to the next idiot.
—It’s not a race.
—Actually it is, and I’m quite out of puff.
—But you are still a relatively young man. 102 is no age at all these days.
—Tell the lasses in the clubs and literary salons that.
—I’m sure they are not consumers of your effusions.
—It depends. Some of them have been.
—And what did they make of it, dare I ask?
—It’s difficult to say. None of them have spoken to me since what might be termed their “encounter”.
—But you have admirers. Not loads, it’s true, but if we booked a coach for a fan day trip to Skegness and sold tickets we would probably break even.
—Are you sure about that?
—Yes, if it was a small coach and we hired it outside the high season.
—Would I have to go on the trip?
—I think it would be expected.
—I don’t like Skegness.
—It doesn’t have to be Skegness. Mablethorpe has a lot going for it, or so I’ve heard. I’ve never been there.
—All this sounds too far outside my comfort zone, which is basically my house. And I’m not completely comfortable there, either. Anyway, we’ve drifted off the point. I have a baton, and I need to pass it on. Do you know any idiots?
—None to compare with you, to be honest.

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