[Charles picks up some manner of tabletop doily, yellowed with age, and gives it a little shake. He absently wonders if lace burns.]

Can't say it's where I'd head if I was a pensioner. ["Retiree", for the discerning American.] Probably the beach, more like. Spend my golden years sipping cocktails.

[Not the one from his dream the other night, mind you. A proper one, with warm sand and slow waves and the smell of sunscreen. The kind he's only seen on the telly.]