He used to pick his nose and then eat the juicy crop. (At least I assume it was juicy. Maybe sometimes it wasn’t. How would I know? He never said ‘Yum, yum, these bogeys are juicy tonight. Let’s see if I can find another one’ or anything like that.) What was interesting, however, was that he only ever did it when he was at home with my mother and me. I never saw him do it when we had company, and I never saw him do it anywhere else. Clearly he didn’t give a toss what we thought about his unsavoury habit, but he obviously cared what other people thought. And that has to be some sort of evidence, doesn’t it? It does, and there was plenty more.
I do tell the nicest tales, don’t I?