“Grimby?”

No reply.

“Griiimbyyy.”

Grimby stirred from slumber where he dreamed of medals. “What?” He muttered, his eyes still half-closed.

“What were you dreaming of?”

“Medals.”

“Medals from the war?”

“No, snooker.” Grimby closed his heavy eyes. The week had wankered him and this sofa was warm and cosy. He could sleep for years.

“Were you good at the snooker?”

“Not bad.”

“Do you miss the snooker?”

“Quit yapping and shut your lip I’m tryna sleep dick head.”

With that, quiet descended and Grimby once again dreamt of medals.