Oh God, shit shit shit, Mother's coming to stay. I'm fearing a week of tutting, fingertips being run along windowsills, pots being washed, carpets being deep-cleaned and rooms being redecorated "because they needed to be done" while I'm at work. Not to mention the incessant, underlying, unspoken feeling of "you've really not done what I expected of you in your life, have you, son".
I'm 36 fucking years old. She's 66. My house is larger than her retirement bungalow. I should, by rights, be able to stick the old bag into a home. But I can't, and once again her impending visit strikes the same terror into me as when it was time for her to come and hoover in my bedroom when I was 14.
And I've got less than half the porn lying around as I did then, too.
I'm 36 fucking years old. She's 66. My house is larger than her retirement bungalow. I should, by rights, be able to stick the old bag into a home. But I can't, and once again her impending visit strikes the same terror into me as when it was time for her to come and hoover in my bedroom when I was 14.
And I've got less than half the porn lying around as I did then, too.
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