GavinI’ve had better mornings.
I wake up to the usual: eggs benedict and well-crisped bacon, brought by Teresa, my maid, and a text from Tony, my I-don’t-know-what.
Let’s cool it for a bit was all her text said, but we both know that’s just the start of it.
I respond the only way a reasonable man would: Okay, how about tomorrow?
She doesn’t respond, but expecting her to in 10 minutes probably isn’t very realistic, especially for someone who… oh right, I don’t even know what she does.
As soon as I’m on my last bite, Jaws calls me.
“Just had it confirmed that Hannah was seen round the Piccolo house, and that Papa Piccolo is in the process of croaking.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the hospital?” I ask.
When I visited him in the hospital yesterday, the cast gave him a Michelin Man up
