Family Values #4 aka Family Value for Money
More family, and, once again, it’s David’s family, not mine [I know better to either invite or encourage my kith and kin to visit].
This time it was David’s brother, Eamon, and his wife, Pauline.
Bit of a double-edged sword this one coz they’re both a fukin nuisance but each in their own different way.
Eamon is a know-it-all would be multi millionaire who just can’t get / keep the money.
Pauline had, until recently, Stockhousen Syndrome by proxy [look it up].
I like Eamon…. when I have him on my territory. Anywhere else and he is a complete pain. He always knows where you can get “it” better, cheaper, more under / over cooked, hotter / colder, etc, blah blah, you get the drift. Oh, and he’s never learned how to get from one place to the other. Arse to elbow strikes a chord….
I’d managed to escape most of the visit because I was working / moonlighting and so that Dave didn’t have to run the gauntlet of having to cook for them [and coz I was moonlighting], Sunday dinner went for a Burton and was planned for Monday evening, supposedly after they had gone.
Eight o’clock Monday night finds me trapping my fingers in my locker door and fumbling for my phone.
“I’m not cooking, we’re going out for something to eat with the Adams Family” [this means that the niece, Fat Bird, is coming too].
Well the swearing etc from me told him that he could go but that I wasn’t going.
“Why?”
“Because he’ll complain about the food, the place, the price and anything else he can find” [and he’s a diabetic and every meal begins with him exposing his belly and jagging himself like a fukin heroin addict].
And so they went and when they got back, me having had my beans on toast, all was as I’d predicted. They didn’t like the menu [the colour, you understand, very hard to read in low light] the content was also not up to par. The place was far to small AND, they allowed smoking [hence for the duration of their stay I burned more Mayfair Superkings than Customs & Excise do in a month.
Then they cribbed the bill. He always does.
“Did we have this? I don’t remember having X item, who had X item?”
Or
“I’m sure this was only £2.95 on the menu, not £2.99”.
Pauline for her part suffered. Not suffered in silence or even suffered Eamon, she just suffered.
The first time I met her, her opening gambit was about a distant relative of David who “took Leukaemia” like you would take aspirin say or Beechams Powders.
She revels in other peoples illness’ or long drawn out deaths.Well now she can relax. Earlier in the year she was diagnosed with breast cancer, had the chemo, lost the hair and is now up there among those who “took” in the pantheon of ailing relatives. Problem is that she’s the keeper of this pantheon, nobody else gives a fuck when you’re rotting away before their very eyes. Nobody, that is, except Pauline.
This time it was David’s brother, Eamon, and his wife, Pauline.
Bit of a double-edged sword this one coz they’re both a fukin nuisance but each in their own different way.
Eamon is a know-it-all would be multi millionaire who just can’t get / keep the money.
Pauline had, until recently, Stockhousen Syndrome by proxy [look it up].
I like Eamon…. when I have him on my territory. Anywhere else and he is a complete pain. He always knows where you can get “it” better, cheaper, more under / over cooked, hotter / colder, etc, blah blah, you get the drift. Oh, and he’s never learned how to get from one place to the other. Arse to elbow strikes a chord….
I’d managed to escape most of the visit because I was working / moonlighting and so that Dave didn’t have to run the gauntlet of having to cook for them [and coz I was moonlighting], Sunday dinner went for a Burton and was planned for Monday evening, supposedly after they had gone.
Eight o’clock Monday night finds me trapping my fingers in my locker door and fumbling for my phone.
“I’m not cooking, we’re going out for something to eat with the Adams Family” [this means that the niece, Fat Bird, is coming too].
Well the swearing etc from me told him that he could go but that I wasn’t going.
“Why?”
“Because he’ll complain about the food, the place, the price and anything else he can find” [and he’s a diabetic and every meal begins with him exposing his belly and jagging himself like a fukin heroin addict].
And so they went and when they got back, me having had my beans on toast, all was as I’d predicted. They didn’t like the menu [the colour, you understand, very hard to read in low light] the content was also not up to par. The place was far to small AND, they allowed smoking [hence for the duration of their stay I burned more Mayfair Superkings than Customs & Excise do in a month.
Then they cribbed the bill. He always does.
“Did we have this? I don’t remember having X item, who had X item?”
Or
“I’m sure this was only £2.95 on the menu, not £2.99”.
Pauline for her part suffered. Not suffered in silence or even suffered Eamon, she just suffered.
The first time I met her, her opening gambit was about a distant relative of David who “took Leukaemia” like you would take aspirin say or Beechams Powders.
She revels in other peoples illness’ or long drawn out deaths.Well now she can relax. Earlier in the year she was diagnosed with breast cancer, had the chemo, lost the hair and is now up there among those who “took” in the pantheon of ailing relatives. Problem is that she’s the keeper of this pantheon, nobody else gives a fuck when you’re rotting away before their very eyes. Nobody, that is, except Pauline.
posted by liits at 8:42 AM
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