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Because we are elderly, we were watching yet another episode of the interminable and increasingly mad series that is Midsomer Murders. A particularly loopy storyline involved a dodgy antique dealer and some “netsuke”.
“What are netsuke?” asked Greg. “I’ve got some,” I said. “I’ll show you.”
I went into the third-best bedroom and opened the lid of my nice great-grandmother’s battered oak chest, which contained the horrors.
“Aren’t they ugly?”