Norman! I would like to say I love you, but how can I? You're an asshole! "I only wanted to make you happy," you claim, which may be true, but still. Three women in one weekend? Grow up! Make a choice! I know it's difficult because all three are lovely and so very different—fire, water, air. True, one of them won't wear her glasses and one of them won't brush her hair and the other, let's face it, is a bit of a shrew, but men make choices! It's your only job! Although admittedly you are a man who doesn't think much of work. Fair enough. It's the seventies, after all, and maybe Free Love travels a narrower road in the English countryside, starting with your own wife's sister and then your sister-in-law and that sort of thing. All in the family; makes it easier to track down the diseases that way, I suppose. And it's not as if either of them ended up with prizes on their own, did they? Tightly wound Reg, so enrapt with his little games and insisting on eating all the time. Forgetting the names of his own children. And dull, dimwitted Tom, who can neither tell nor take a joke, even when they're directed squarely at his own species. "He's always Tom," as Ruth puts it. Yes, you are certainly a breath of fresh air after that, Norman, and you're always Norman, too, in the dining room, in the sitting room, round and round the garden. Hour after hour of Norman, all your clothes either too loose or too tight, always flinging yourself to the ground, tearing at something. I can see how you belong everywhere and nowhere at once. And then there's your floppy hair and scruffy beard and all your wildly movable parts—you're like an actual human version of a Golden Retriever, Norman, stupid, slurpy, overly enthusiastic, too noisy, too interested, too quick to cry, reflexively loyal to everyone who crosses your path. A real nuisance at suppertime. Bit of a licker. Adorable, really, in fact almost irresistible.