Dad's boring mate, Geoff, is here. He says he thinks his identity might have been stolen. Gran, a seasoned member of our local Neighbourhood Watch association, says she'll keep her eyes peeled for any 'dodgy looking dullards'. I don't think she quite understands the concept of identity theft.
Dad's dull mate, Geoff, is here. He's talking about his socket set. Apparently it's a thirty-seven Piece, drop-forged, heat-treated, chrome vanadium socket set with black oxide finish. Dad is rubbing his left earlobe. This is a signal. One of us is now meant to call his mobile phone. Gran has taken it upon herself to make that call.
Gran: Hello. It's me.
Dad looks confused at this point. Gran wasn't meant to start a conversation. She's merely required to make his phone ring so that he can extricate himself from Geoff's boring company.
Dad: A-hem. Why are you calling? You're sitting opposite me.
Gran: I saw you rubbing your left earlobe.
Dad: Oh for god's sake! Just put the phone down.
Gran: But aren't you bored?
Dad: Please. Just put the phone down!
Gran: Well, if you insist.
Geoff looks bemused. He couldn't have suspected anything though as he's now talking about hedge trimmers. Gran is shit at this kind of thing.
Sharon just fell asleep whilst cutting Geoff's hair. Apparently dad's dull mate had been recounting the numerous ceilings that he's painted over the years. Mum says the bloke is a fuckin' liability and that she almost dropped-off whilst doing the ironing last week. On that occasion he'd been droning on about sandpaper and how choosing the right grade is imperative when contemplating skirting boards.
Dave's told Sharon not to worry too much about cutting through Geoff's earlobe. "It's not like he wears earrings or anything."
I'm writing this entry from underneath the kitchen table. Mum is crouched down by the side of the cooker and dad has locked himself into the toilet. Boring Geoff is outside. He's been knocking on the door for over fifteen minutes. Dad says he's received numerous texts from Geoff over the past week or so. From what I can gather he's been threatening to bring over photographs of his new lawnmower for us to look at. Gran says she'd quite like to see Geoff's new lawnmower. We've thrown a towel over her head and told her to be quiet. This isn't how I envisioned spending my Saturday morning.
Dad's dull mate, Geoff, was here earlier. He was droning on and on about his new laminated flooring. Gran, at one stage, said that laminated boring didn't appeal to her. She later admitted that the Freudian slip contained within her statement was indeed premeditated. I'm no expert on Freud, but I'm almost sure that a slip spoken with intent is not a slip at all.
Dad's mate, Geoff, is here. He's talking about the new skirting boards he bought. He's been talking about them for twenty minutes. Gran just sent me a text from the other side of the kitchen. She says she's 'skirting -bored' shitless of Geoff. She says he makes me look interesting. I think this might be a compliment.
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.