I just got back from the cornerstore. Checkout girl didn't serve me because she was busy talking to a new member of staff. His name is Anthony. Ant for short. I don't like him. He wears one of those bluetooth headsets. I suspect it makes him feel more superior than he actually is.
I may return later for the evening newspaper. I've asked gran if I can borrow her hearing aid. 'Ant for short' isn't the only one around here who can spout self-aggrandising claptrap to an unseen subordinate.
Dad says I'm being ridiculous and that checkout girl will know I'm just talking to myself. He forgets that acting is in my blood. At school I was once cast as the lead in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.
On this occasion I've chosen to ignore mum's inquiry regarding how one goes about successfully playing the part of a coat.
I'm in the living room with dad. I just asked him where gran is. He says he last saw her having a lemon drizzle in the kitchen. I hope that's some form of cake and not a euphemism.
Our Internet connection went down earlier. Gran was quick to apportion blame, insisting that North Korea were very likely behind the attack. They weren't. Mum had simply unplugged the router so she could vacuum behind the tele.
Gran always holds totalitarian dictatorships responsible for Internet related problems. Other, more mundane faults of a domestic nature are promptly attributed to David Cameron. She still holds the Prime Minister responsible for our boiler woes. Dad says it's best not to question gran's speculations. He says the boiler was intermittently malfunctioning long before Mr. Cameron came into office, "...so it couldn't possibly have been his doing."
The total lack of logic inherent in both of their ridiculous statements can only be attributed to some kind of mutant gene. Mum agrees, adding that the synthetic agents responsible for such mutations can travel many, many miles. "Totalitarian dictatorships and chemical weaponry," she says whilst plugging the router back into the wall-socket, "have a lot to answer for."
Sometimes, even when amongst family... I feel so desperately alone.
I'm at the breakfast table with dad. Mum, as usual, is hovering around the place with a duster. It's rare to see mum without a duster. Dad says she's always been the same. Apparently, on their wedding day she halted the service because of a dusty alter. Mum refuses to confirm this. Which probably means it's true.
It's their wedding anniversary today. It's given them both cause to reminisce about the 70's. Mum says she misses the 70's. Dad, unbeknown to mum has hatched a plan. Later, when she goes shopping for various cleaning solutions, he wants me to help manoeuvre a dozen-or-so rubbish filled bin liners from the shed to the street outside. He's also mentioned something about temporarilly shutting-off our electricity supply. Blackouts and uncollected refuge were à la mode back then, according to gran.
Perhaps I'm missing some glaringly obvious point here, but I can't for the life of me percieve anything remotely glamorous about the Glam Rock era. Still, so long as it makes mum happy...
Sharon's here. She's talking to mum about babies. She says if she ever has a baby boy she's going to name him Lasagne. Gran says it's ridiculous. I agree. Lasagne's quite obviously a girl's name.
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.
Sharon says the path to enlightenment is littered with many obstacles and that tranquility can only truly exist when one has learned to appreciate the sanctity of silence.
It's hard to comprehend why the new-age weirdo would choose to spend the afternoon in the company of mum and gran. After all, their incessant gossiping is hardly conducive to promoting the conditions of which she speaks.
Dad says she should try breaking into Woolworths if she wants to experience the true sanctity of silence. He's got a point.
Sharon's here. She's having a cup of tea with gran. She says Wednesdays are always quiet on the mobile hairdressing circuit. She keeps looking at me. It's like cutting hair is some kind of addiction, and right now I'm in danger of becoming her fix.
I cut my own hair with electric clippers. I give myself a number two every other week. Sharon says people like me are killing her trade. She's talking bollocks. I've seen what she charges.
Gran says I should go to the doctors if I'm only having one number two every other week. I wish she'd get a new battery for her hearing aid.
Dave's finally gone home! His dispute with Sharon regarding Euro 2012 and a TV remote-control unit is now over. Dave claims that a dead rapper is responsible for her change of heart. Apparently Tupac Shakur told 'Psychic Sharon' that relationships only work if both partners are prepared to give and take.
Gran says she prefers Utterly Butterly to Lurpak Shakur. Mum says she can't comment because she's yet to hear Utterly Butterly's work. I'm glad things are back to normal.
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.
Dad: Hello?
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.
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