A MAN CALLED OVE AND A LOT OF BASTARDS STICKING THEIR NOSES IN
“I’m sorry about this,” Ove creaks. He brushes the snow off the gravestone.
But you know how it is. People have no respect at all for personal boundaries anymore.
They charge into your house without knocking and cause a commotion, you can hardly even sit on the crapper in peace anymore,” he explains,
while he digs the frozen flowers out of the ground and presses down the new ones through the snow.
He looks at her as if he’s expecting her to nod her agreement.
But she doesn’t, of course. The cat sits next to Ove in the snow and looks like it absolutely agrees.
Especially with that bit about not being allowed to go to the toilet in peace.
Lena had come by Ove’s house in the morning to drop off a copy of the newspaper.
He was on the front page, looking like the archetypal grumpy old sod.
He’d kept his word and let her interview him. But he wasn’t smiling like a donkey for the camera; he told them that in no uncertain terms.
“It’s a fantastic interview!” she insisted proudly.
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