His eyebrows raise.

'...ta.'

Yeah, he'll never say no to biscuits. Even if they're not Garibaldis. They're scooped up in one hand, while the other holds his glass, and cigarette.

The ghost gets a once-over. The vaguely maternal air is both helpful and unsettling, given what he's just seen, but he supposes it won't stick around for long anyway.

'Your turn to whisk me away to a magical fairyland of my own life, is it?'