After the bazaar, Gareth helped Rose on with her jacket, over which she tossed a purple leopard scarf that should have clashed horribly with everything else she wore but somehow looked effortless and perfect. If she and my brother ever get around to having kids, she’ll probably look like one of those yummy mummies who are always throwing themselves at the new vicar.
"I know, and I want to keep it that way," Vincent said. "I'm an art scholar, not a wannabe business tycoon who ran out of space in his warehouse."
"Scholar. You still haven't finished art academy and you're twenty-five. You'll retire before you graduate."
"I see nothing wrong with that," Vincent said, picking up a spoon and thoughtfully stirring his already cold tea. "The world has too many economists, money grabbers and strivers. We need more art, more poets and paintings, more people who care."
"Dad, really, you should switch to an EV," said Derek, as his parents walked to their gas guzzler. "That thing drinks up half the profits." That was exaggerated, of course, but Derek was environmentally conscious to quite an extreme.
"As soon as this beast stops running, son," Rhett promised his son, and patted the hood of the car. "Which isn't going to happen soon, and we all know that. This is old fashioned quality. This thing will still run when the earth burns up in the sun."
Derek sighed. "And that thing is the very reason the earth will burn up before the sun stands a chance."