It is a sad fact of life that I am not flatter fodder.
Or maybe not. Sad, I mean. If I became an object of flattery, I might have to learn to simper, and that would be awful.
But luckily, there’s no chance of that. With the exception of those scattered about by chronic sycophants, insincere or overblown compliments are only offered with view to gaining advantage and I have no advantages to trade.
I also, I’ve been told, have a Look guaranteed to shrivel the most practised flummery-pedlar to gnat size in two seconds at most. I know my sister has a Look of this ilk, so perhaps it’s hereditary: armour for those who cringe at the thought of simpering.
My father also had a Look, but his said That’s Enough! My children tell me I have this one as well. You have pushed me to the limit, Back Off! They have even warned their partners about it, although I swear the implied or else never happened. Except the time I tossed up between the knife in one hand and the onion in the other, and threw the onion. But even then it was a damp squib. The onion was in my left hand, and I’m right-handed.