I try to tell him again, but he is not listening.
They’re coming to get her.
Who, grandad, I ask sadly.
He points with his nose at Catherine/Kate on TV.
Aristocrat, he says decidedly in the TV room. He leans back in the armchair with a palm on one armrest, his legs lavishly crossed. He is grand.
Soon the sentences will stop, so we try to avoid cutting off any in formation. We wait a while.
His name is Jock, a name not really in use anymore. He is a thing without a relevant name. And Kate is no aristocrat.
What we don’t know is that, for his Royal Wedding day, the nurses have given him a secret to chew on like a horse on a bouquet of flowers.
The secret, about which he is right: she should wear an off-white dress.