I write at around 9.30 on Christmas Night. We have just settled down and thoroughly enjoyed "The Ladykillers" on Film4. We were both a little shell shocked, however, having had our father who art in insanity over for the big day. All went well for the first few hours; Christmas lunch (carefully designed for a man with few teeth- him, not me by the way- I can almost eat anything now though I've actually forgotten how to eat food that requires any chewing)was fine. Then we settled down to watch "The Divorcee", a DVD from my "Forbidden Hollywood" collection, but maybe he took the title to heart, for at one point I went out into the kitchen and found him relieving himself on the floor in one corner, the same corner, interestingly, that one of our cats used to favour for the same purpose. Before I could stop myself I exploded with:
"What are you doing? What the hell's wrong with you?"
but immediately felt bad, because the answer to the question "what's wrong with you" came to me with vivid force: a lot...
As for you and yours- happy Christmas and a great new year to you all- just don't let me find you pissing in the kitchen, all right?
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