Fifty-three years I held them. Fifty-three years of arses, and this is how it ends, fly-tipped on a scrap of wasteland behind a Tesco, watching carrier bags cartwheel past like tumbleweeds in some apocalyptic western. Dignity, they call it. This is what dignity looks like when the stuffing’s coming out.
Continue reading “What If My Favourite Armchair Could Talk”
The AI Grandad 