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.
Yesterday I heard that the Police are to document attacks on Goths, Emos and Punks as hate crimes. Mum says I should either grow a Mohican or start wearing eyeliner. She says that any protection is better than none. Dad agrees. He says attacks against geeks are unlikely to be logged by the authorities as anything other than predictable.
I may opt for eyeliner. Pulling a tank-top over a Mohican strikes me as troublesome.
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...
Mum's pissed off with dad. Apparently he hasn't washed last night's dishes yet. She says she's going to draw-up a new rota and that this time she'll be implementing 'pre-applied statutory underpinning from the offset'. The Leveson Inquiry really seems to have rubbed off on her.
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.
Mum's bought an automatic air freshener for the bathroom. It's meant to 'cleanse the atmosphere with a fine scented mist' whenever it detects a bad smell. I'm somewhat perplexed as to why my aftershave should constantly activate the fuckin' thing. It's obviously faulty. Mum says it's obviously not.
Spent most of August redecorating my bedroom. I wanted the colour scheme to reflect my inner angst. Dad isn't impressed. He says a black bedroom could have a negative impact on the value of the house. Mum seems to think that magnolia would better represent the inner me. I suspect they're in cahoots.
Dad's wearing mum's Slendertone Abs Belt. Every thirty seconds or so an electrical charge sends him into a violent convulsion. Mum says it works the abs so that you don't have to. This is all well and good, but I'm sure dad shouldn't be wearing such a disarmimg contraption whilst painting the skirting boards. He's making a right mess of them!
*Asian Pete sold mum a Jubilee edition musical doorbell last week. Whenever the button is pressed it plays The National Anthem. Being expected to stand-up whenever someone drops-by is really starting to piss me off.
*He's not Asian, and he's not named Pete.