Herbert was ninety-four and always playing with himself. He would sit alone in the community room of the Old Folks’ Eventide Home and play with himself.
He said he’d always done it, and there was no reason to stop now. When he was younger, he reckoned, he was a dab hand at it. Now that he was old he said things had improved. He would change hands and had forgotten what happened two minutes earlier.
Eighty-two year old Fred had offered to help out once. No, said Herbert. He preferred to play with himself. Fred never offered again. The thing that amazed the other elderly folk who watched him was that Herbert never showed an ounce of emotion on his physiognomy. Not as much as a grunt or a smile. His was a poker face if ever there was one.
There he goes, swapping hands again!
If he let other people play with him he’d beat them hands down. He was a master at poker.