My second-to-last-night home, I was lighting the fire and it was trying really hard to die. My thirteen-year-old brother advised me to put it out of it's misery and start over. I didn't. I couldn't. Ten minutes later it was roaring at us.
We had tea and he was gulping his bean segments down one at a time with juice. The large glass juice jug was between him and Mum, and he was dodging round to make the image of her face distort, calling her a retard. He completely lost it when she had only one eye and a squashed skull. Warning him that if he didn't stop laughing, his lime juice would squirt out his eyes, didn't stop him.
Once he had stopped laughing enough, he said something very fast about two minutes and twenty seven seconds, and Mum was like, “What?!? Two centipedes?”
I'm not sure how I started the Leonard Cohen impressions, but Mum won them.
Then I was using my knife and fork as chopsticks, mostly just flipping food off my plate.
It all ended with Mum spinning round in the kitchen squealing that there was a cockroach in her top and throwing her clothes off one layer at a time. All she found was a loose earring down her shirt.
He and I made chocolate sauce for our icecream, and we all sat in front of the fire, which was by now in it's prime, Mum with just the chocolate sauce jug and a spoon, to watch TinTin.
Where did it all go so right?
No comments:
Post a Comment