His beard is fuzzy and grey, like a cats whiskers.
His trousers are covered in dust from all his hard work.
His breath smells like blended Whyte and MacKay Whisky.
His voice is deep and quite.
His glasses are small and square like a complex maths problem.
His home is mine, the land he’s farmed and built on before, the best place in the world, Glengoulandie.
He is my Grandad Sandy and he is the best.
by Fraser McAdam.
