the T-G looks down his nose at Geoffrey's writing

"For pity's sake," said the T-G in a shocked, hushed voice,"You'll have to send him to night classes. Is he alright in the, you know, head?"
"Of course he is!" I snapped, loyally. "He just can't spell."
"It's not just the spelling. It's the handwriting," he added in a disgusted tone.
"That's hardly his fault. Geoffrey doesn't have hands," I explained.
"Oh, of course," said the T-G. "I'd forgotten. I suppose he does alright for someone with webbed feet."
"Is Mrs T-G much of a writer?" I asked innocently, taking exception to his sneering manner. Any mention of Mrs T-G makes him jump and look guilty. "And isn't she wondering where you are at 1.30 in the morning? Not that it's any of my business."
"Ahem," he coughed," I think I'll just..."
His face had turned a ghastly and rather alarming shade of beige.
"Oh, forget it, T-G. Let's not fall out. Have another glass of madeira."
After all, I couldn't have him conking out on me.