Dad told me that I should be a solicitor. Licence to print money, he says. So I’m going to be a stupid prat like Reg Benson when I’m big so that I can be rich, too.
I ask mum where dad is. She says that the men came to the house in the night and took dad away.
It was at that point I realised I wasn’t in love with you at all. I was just in love with the idea of you. It became obvious that our relationship wasn’t going to be easy.
I gave up. Without shouting the word C*NT, I couldn’t see any other way of explaining it.
And just hang on, mum. A little bit longer. Just for tomorrow. Or forever, if you can.
Ironically, mum put her child’s recovery down to the chill of a dish of ice cream rather than the warmth of her own brilliant love and resolve.
So the milkman can sod off. We’ll make the most of whatever life throws at us. Because that’s what we do.
I was concerned that during his visit he might slip into a dullness coma, based on our finite amount of wine time and Whitney deficiency.
Do boy-hormones induce smelly bum burbs? There’s one to ponder.
I can’t believe I had ever dismissed Venice for being a bit watery and too pigeony. But it just goes to show: life is all about who you are with.
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