I love the little Jawas. All I want to do is run up to them and hug them and babble in that special birdsong language and hug them some more and maybe even trade them some wind-extracted lumps of raw material for out-of-date, obsolete astromech droids.
Then I remember there’s no such as Jawas and to race after little Londoners in burqas would be wrong, also embarassing.
Finally on tonight’s syllybus; the optical illuson of beard-chins. Beards allow persons the indlugence of others imagining their perfect chin underneath it, without letting reality intrude. Yay for beards!