I took him and my Nan out for a meal at Toby Carvery one Tuesday teatime (don’t ask – it’s their favourite). Just as we were finished eating and Nan had again finished telling me that she’d never seen it so busy, Grandad got up to go to the toilet and asked her to pass him his coat. ‘What do you need your coat for to go to the toilet Fred?’ she replied agitatedly ‘Just pass me the bloody coat!’ he insisted. After much back and forth, she reluctantly handed over the coat and he proceeded to attempt to wrestle his way into it. I got up to help him, and together we eventually managed to guide his arms into the correct sleeves (easier said than done). As he turned to leave, he unknowingly dragged the bottom of his coat through the remains of the gravy on his plate.
‘Why does he need his coat to go to the toilet? He’s getting worse every day I tell you’ my Nan grumbled once again as he left. Whilst he was gone, I asked the waitress to bring us the bill. ‘Oh, that gentleman has just paid at the bar’, she replied, pointing to my Grandad as he shuffled away to the bathroom. His wallet was in his coat. Crafty bugger.