Wrinkle wrinkle, little star.

Don't you just love it when your grandfather's neighbour chooses to let his hookah do the talking? The plate of baked sardines set on his lap, the colour draining from his pink cheeks as he deliberately regales you with a long drag and cracks his knuckles in your face. Windswept oily hair, that is as well-groomed as the whiskers of my librarian's dog. These Bengali octagenarians would have you believe otherwise.