My dad was telling me about old Uncle Austin. He was a painter and ceramicist of some talent. Tiles. Mosaics.
"He was a character," he said.
"Really?"
"Once when they were living in France and we were living in Switzerland they came to visit. It was nice they came so far away. We had tea. And cakes. It was a lovely time. He took out his wallet and I tried to stop him. They were our guests, after all. And he just said, Fuck you."