July 19, 2008
So, my poor mother is ill with some bizarre kind of summer flu.
As the doting youngest son, and not at all to stay in the will (or indeed claim the lion's share of it), I ring her each day to check on her, and hopefully provide some merriment in her otherwise poorly day.
Today, she instead was the entertainment.
DotingSon.Com: "So, how are you?"
Mumster: "A bit better, thanks, sausage."
DSDC [who tries to gloss over the terms of endearment in a manly fashion, given that he is, in fact, 30 bastard 7]: "Have you eaten anything?"
Mumster [who, when we were growing up, never - and I mean "never" - allowed us to eat our paltry repast anywhere other than the Ice Cold Kitchen Of Prince's Fish Paste Nightmares]: "Funnily enough, flowerpot, I am sat in the living room on the recliner having something to eat just now."
(Considerably outraged] DSDC: "WHAT? Food on your lap? In front of the telly?"
Mumster: "Yes Tim, Mark, erm, Justin."
"I'm Justin."
"I mean Justin. Sorry flowerpot."
"Yes. What are you eating?"
"Well, I just fancied some mashed potato," she says, with a slight squeal. "Lovely."
"Right."
"And you know what else? Haven't had it in ages."
"What?"
"Ooh, it's lovely. It'll take me a while to eat, I'm sure, but there's nothing like a nice bit of hot faggot."
Class.
* She reads this, so be nice 
