Times are dark now sure enough what with the covid and all, but they've always felt a bit doom-laden hereabouts. Death at your fireside and so forth. The *thud-thud-thud* of the Grim Reaper's scythe-handle hammering at the door when you least expect it, and were hoping for a quiet evening by the fire with a favourite book, a pipeful of Black Bogey, some crisps and a bucket of absinthe.
'If you aren't preparing for Death, you aren't really living,' opined the T-G. 'If you're wise like me, you'll always keep an empty chair by the fire, directly opposite your own, as a constant reminder of your inevitable demise.'
'Doesn't Mrs T-G mind?' asked Geoffrey, 'After all surely that's her seat, opposite yours by the fire?'
'Oh she doesn't mind. She doesn't have time to sit by the fire. If she isn't scrubbing the floors and blacking the grate she's usually in the kitchen cooking black sausage rolls (see paperback for recipe) and doing the washing up.'
More on stereotypical gender roles and toxic masculinity later (or not - most likely not actually)
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