“Torrid. It’s torrid, I tell you.”
Gran and I exchange a glance and a smile. Grandad’s always getting words wrong. Whether he does it deliberately just to make us laugh I don’t know. But his hearing’s getting worse so maybe it’s that.
Gran pulls him closer so her mouth is near his ear. “Don’t you mean horrid, Frank?”
He gestures at the TV, and I glance at the monkeys on the screen. Oh my, they’re definitely full of the joys of spring.
“As I said, with all that going on, it’s definitely torrid.”