Mum's reading a magazine article in which Elton John claims that he could have ended-up like Whitney Houston. Gran says why, if that's the case, did he choose to be fat, four-eyed and balding? Dave says she's got a point. Being surrounded by this amount of thickness is truly terrifying.
I've just ordered another set of panpipes. This will be my third set since Xmas. Mum says I should stop playing Jimi Hendrix songs as I tend to get a bit carried away. Dad agrees. He says that my somewhat subdued interpretation of Purple Haze doesn't really warrant lighter-fuel and matches.
Mum just asked Dave's weird girlfriend, Sharon, if she still does exorcisms. She says she does, but only if she's not busy with her hairdressing. Apparently mum is concerned about dad's ever-expanding belly. She thinks it might be inhabited by an evil spirit. I suspect she's being sarcastic. It's hard to tell with mum sometimes.
Dad has finally received a date for his hernia operation. Mum says he probably won't go because he's terrified of hospitals. Apparently his fear is so bad that he refused to be present at my birth. Gran says he sent his mate, Geoff, instead. I find this most peculiar. Geoff didn't even record the event. He just watched?! Gran agrees. It's proper fucked up.
Staring at the colour blue during sex, according to dad's Big Book of Facts, is meant to greatly increase the intensity of a person's orgasm. Dave says this may explain why he's always had an urge to fuck a smurfette. Gran, to break the awkward silence that has developed in the wake of Dave's revelation, has started to hum The Smurf Song. It's not helping.
The Mars bar I got mum for Mothering Sunday looks rather paltry alongside the Belgian chocolates that Dave has just given her. There are times when I just wish he'd get his own mother!
Dave, according to Sharon, modelled for C & A when he was a child. Mum says I wasn't photogenic enough to make it in the world of children's fashion. She says if Specsavers had been around I may have stood a chance. I hope she doesn't get the photo album out.
Mum says Aunty Carol phoned this morning. Apparently she's upset about the 'Thank You' card that I sent her. She says it's completely inappropriate and that I won't be receiving any more knitwear from her in the future. How a simple picture of a meerkat holding a bunch of flowers in it's right paw can provoke such an hostile reaction is quite frankly beyond me. Mum has pointed out that the subject of aunty Carol's discord appears to be centred around the questionable activity of the meerkat's left paw. Now she comes to mention it...
Dave has yet to fully understand that his iPhone's personal assistant, Siri, has limitations. Expecting it to know whether his girlfriend is on her period or not is naive to say the least. Gran I can understand. She's old. How's she to know that Siri would be clueless as to the whereabouts of her false teeth?
Mum has wrapped her arse in cling film again. Apparently it aids weight loss. It's ridiculous actions like these that make me more determined than ever to get a DNA test. It's frightening to think that I may have spent my formative years with the wrong parents.