My poor boy. Look at him, so sore, so tired.
"Roobbb, my arms are killing me", he moaned.
Now, there is a reason I try to steer him clear of garage sales, and the old hand-cranked ice cream maker seemed at first sight to fall squarely into the category of "useless crap that will clutter up the house". But looking at, tasting, the results, I was willing to admit my error.
Grinning, I raised the spoon to my lips, slowly licking off the creamy strawberry goodness. He looked interested and groaned.
"Such a shame your hands don't work, my love."