My son (30), in the pub, after work. He called me. We've been discussing a book I passed on to him. He is not particularly serious:
"I hate this! I'm turning into you! In a few weeks' time, when it gets cold and dark outside, and they light the fire here... [Gestures to the genuine open fire-place beside our seats] I'll think there is nothing better than to come in here after work, and sit in this corner with a pint and a book. And I'll glare 'meaningly' (like Paddington Bear) at anyone who tries to interrupt."
Me:
"Sorry! It's genetic. Don't try to fight it..."
That's my boy!
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