Today, I ventured back to the motherland (Cambridge, where my mother actually lives) to see the strange faces of my nearest and dearest. Tomorrow morning Rose and I are off to the hospital for another one of Rose's denervation procedures. I am rather nervous - much more so than her, who takes it all in her stride. I have bought her two magazines, sadly two copies of the same magazine and I imagine I will supplement this with a piece of millionaires shortbread and a carton of Ribena after the op tomorrow.
At the moment I am pleased. Pleased, because I have been told that I don't need to work my night shift tonight as said popular weight-loss drug site is currently 'down'. This means no graphic descriptions of 'bum-gravy', which will be a lovely treat. Instead, I can do all manner of fantastic things with my night instead! Namely, sleep. Ahhhh, delicious sleep. Book reading, nail varnish, bath and sleep. Not necessarily in that order, but all of those lovely things. And also wine. The rest of the bottle of wine. Mmm.
My dad has had a few glasses and is talking about Roger's Profanisaurus from Viz. He is giggling a lot to himself and reminiscing about people with strange names that he know in his youth. One is a psychiatrist called called Dr Donald Dick, who apparently used to say to him: "Put your brain in my hands." Whenever said doctor used to say this, my dad would make himself giggle by reversing the sentence and saying: " My name's Dr Donal Brain, put your dick in my hands." Hilarity! This means that dad wil laugh for at least 5 minutes, and then bring up his childhood friend, Russell Sprout. Also a very funny name. It becomes a bit less funny when dad then says: "Of course, he committed suicide before sixth form." Nice.
Mum is also on good form - reminiscing about the time when she called dad a 'rimmer' over Christmas dinner. Oh how we laughed!
I have to go now, as Rose has just shouted at me to stop fucking typing and dad has added his two cents by coming over to me, leaning into the screen and saying, "So, this is like Tony Benn's diary is it?" No, dad, no it's not. It is much less worthy and merely the rantings of my diseased mind. Plus some of your and mum's lesser profanities.
Goodnight my treacles, sleep well, as I will, tucked up in a comfy-ish bed (albeit one that I have to share with my sister) rather than moderating the disturbed ramblings of the clinically obese.
Hurrah! x
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