a threadly reminder

“I'm fair peched,” Grandad said, as he said every Sunday. “That's 'cos you're old, Granda.” Wee Jean cooried into the old man's side, hiding from the North Sea wind.

[T]hoſe common and quotidian infirmities that ſo neceſſarily attend me, and doe ſeeme to be my very nature, have ſo dejected me, ſo broken the eſtimation that I ſhould have othervviſe of my ſelf, that I repute my ſelfe the moſt abjecteſt piece of mortality: […]

You're going to be in a world of trouble when your family finds out.