Arthur, 94, sat hunched in his armchair, the rugby on mute because he’d lost the remote again. He sipped his evening whisky, convinced it was his last bottle until he opened the cupboard and found three more. “Mind like a sieve,” he muttered, not for the first time.
In wandered Len, 81, clutching a zero-alcohol lager and wearing his battered football scarf. “Your lot will privatise the air next,” he grumbled, lowering himself into the spare chair with the creak of old bones and old opinions.
Arthur snorted. “Coming from you? You’ve spent fifty years moaning about every government we’ve had.”
“At least I’m consistent,” Len shot back. “Anyway, your rugby’s rubbish. Fancy the match?”
“Only if you explain why your striker keeps falling over like a man hit by a sniper.”
Len shrugged. “He’s got talent.”
“He’s got gravity issues.”
They watched in companionable silence, the kind that only arrives after decades of disagreeing without ever drifting apart. Arthur forgot the score twice. Len reminded him twice. It didn’t matter. They were still here, still arguing, still laughing.
And for both of them, that was enough.
*******************************
I've been worrying that maybe a book I read was written by AI
