I've gotten really hot since you went blind.

Can I ask you something personal?”

Six inches but I tell everyone eight.

These eyes, tho' clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot, Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, not bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward.

O dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark! total eclipse, Without all hope of day.

O loss of sight, of thee I most complain! Blind among enemies, O worse than chains, Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age!

I switched to wine – for better or worse and carried over – rather shuffled back to the table with an overflowing pint of ‘Jimmie Crickets Finest Burning Bum Bitter,’ or words to that effect. Is there such a thing as one-word bitter anymore? ‘Sgt Stiffies Severed Nippy.’ ‘Hair Of The Bastard Dog That Bit Me.’ ‘The Devils Own Salty Piss.’ I’ve never had a pallet for bitter. I was mainly a girly-drink-drunk.