Do you know the way how people in your life make you groan (I nearly wrote grown – that’s English for you; you mean one thing, you spell it like the other – no wonder the nation is going to the dogs. Make mine a cat. Stirred not shaken.)
Yes, other people making me groan (inwardly). If I had to dissect anyone close and of remote interest to me I could list and describe a rainbow of their usual gripes, woes and happiness. And how they express them. A bit like a fingerprint of their soul (or should that be sole? Leather or fish?).
It’s endearing. Familiarity most certainly – in my eyes – does not breed contempt. Familiarity envelopes you like a favourite blanket, whether cashmere or sackcloth.
I make MYSELF groan in joyful recognition of yet another of MY recognizable footprints in either the written or the spoken word. Hell’s Bells. The hunchback of Notre Dame has nothing on me.
As long as I don’t go deaf on myself I am yours, predictably, reliably, the odd crack and cold water notwithstanding,