Mum, Dad, and a Mincemeat Penis.*
*a possible contender for the name of my first novel.
It was only a matter of time before I ran back into the bosom of Mum and Dad for a weekend. I needed love. I needed affection. I needed looking after. And I needed what I think is referred to as out-and-out piss-taking to remind me that NUH-UH. I AINT ALL THAT, GIRLFRIEND.
And that was just my father.
Speaking of whom. I walked into the kitchen to him making mince pies. That was exciting because his pastry? Melt. In. Mouth. Good. He puts way too much booze into the mincemeat but hey- if you're not drunk and passed out on the sofa by noon at the Williams household you're probably the designated driver. Sucks to be you.
So I walk into the kitchen and he screams, "CLOSE YOUR EYES!" which I of course absolutely ignore, almost like he hasn't spoken at all, and go and take a look at his treats. To his left were a tray of delicious mince pies, fresh out of the oven. To his right was a mincemeat penis. With engraved foreskin.
"You have a mincemeat penis," I said.
"You shouldn't even know what a penis looks like," he replied.
Like that was the issue at hand.
I can't even tell you how that part of the story ends, because I didn't ask. I just accepted it. This was on the back of him calling me all week and screaming like Cheryl Cole down the phone, "WHAT SONG WOULD YOU HAVE GIVEN HER?!" but in an Irish accent, and then changing it after a discussion about the Christmas cheese selection to, "WHAT CHEESE WOULD YOU HAVE GIVEN HER?!" which was only mildly upsetting compared to say, oh I don't know. MINCEMEAT PENIS.
Is the plural of that mincemeat peni?
And he is sort of obsessed with the Twilight films too, and went out Saturday to get the latest one. When we got home he piled the three films on top of each other and whispered, "When I've got them all, I'm going to watch them in a row. But for now, let's just watch the new one. It's brilliant."
Meanwhile Mama was busy taking back trousers to her local fashion shrine for the third time and when she ask my opinion I blithly told her, "I think you're overestimating my interest in fashion, Jane." She looked me up and down and quickly replied, "Trust me. I'm not." Ouch.
It all helped to take my mind off of feeling a little bit sad, though. I've actually been so sad that I have had a headache for over two weeks, and that headache finally went away the day I said out loud that I was a little bit sad, and cried for six hours in a row. One of the few occasions where out was definitely better than in. In is better than out when it comes to say, a family-sized bar of Galaxy, or perhaps One Direction. Or a family-sized bar of Galaxy OVER One direction...
... Where was I?
Oh yes. I'm okay now, since you ask. I re-read some Paulo Coelho and started to wear all black and red lipstick. It's just all a bit overwhelming, this staying in one place thing. I've nearly done four months back here in Derby and don't tell the council I said this or anything but BORING. Can you imagine being so bored that you cry for six hours? It was almost as if I just needed something to do. Wherein some make a mincemeat penis in times of trouble, others simply need a cuddle. Enter Mum and Dad.
They are, as I've told you Internet a thousand times before, mentalists. But they are MY mentalists. And no, I don't know what became of the mincemeat penis. But dad said something about how Jane likes the end bit.
It was only a matter of time before I ran back into the bosom of Mum and Dad for a weekend. I needed love. I needed affection. I needed looking after. And I needed what I think is referred to as out-and-out piss-taking to remind me that NUH-UH. I AINT ALL THAT, GIRLFRIEND.
And that was just my father.
Speaking of whom. I walked into the kitchen to him making mince pies. That was exciting because his pastry? Melt. In. Mouth. Good. He puts way too much booze into the mincemeat but hey- if you're not drunk and passed out on the sofa by noon at the Williams household you're probably the designated driver. Sucks to be you.
So I walk into the kitchen and he screams, "CLOSE YOUR EYES!" which I of course absolutely ignore, almost like he hasn't spoken at all, and go and take a look at his treats. To his left were a tray of delicious mince pies, fresh out of the oven. To his right was a mincemeat penis. With engraved foreskin.
"You have a mincemeat penis," I said.
"You shouldn't even know what a penis looks like," he replied.
Like that was the issue at hand.
I can't even tell you how that part of the story ends, because I didn't ask. I just accepted it. This was on the back of him calling me all week and screaming like Cheryl Cole down the phone, "WHAT SONG WOULD YOU HAVE GIVEN HER?!" but in an Irish accent, and then changing it after a discussion about the Christmas cheese selection to, "WHAT CHEESE WOULD YOU HAVE GIVEN HER?!" which was only mildly upsetting compared to say, oh I don't know. MINCEMEAT PENIS.
Is the plural of that mincemeat peni?
And he is sort of obsessed with the Twilight films too, and went out Saturday to get the latest one. When we got home he piled the three films on top of each other and whispered, "When I've got them all, I'm going to watch them in a row. But for now, let's just watch the new one. It's brilliant."
Meanwhile Mama was busy taking back trousers to her local fashion shrine for the third time and when she ask my opinion I blithly told her, "I think you're overestimating my interest in fashion, Jane." She looked me up and down and quickly replied, "Trust me. I'm not." Ouch.
It all helped to take my mind off of feeling a little bit sad, though. I've actually been so sad that I have had a headache for over two weeks, and that headache finally went away the day I said out loud that I was a little bit sad, and cried for six hours in a row. One of the few occasions where out was definitely better than in. In is better than out when it comes to say, a family-sized bar of Galaxy, or perhaps One Direction. Or a family-sized bar of Galaxy OVER One direction...
... Where was I?
Oh yes. I'm okay now, since you ask. I re-read some Paulo Coelho and started to wear all black and red lipstick. It's just all a bit overwhelming, this staying in one place thing. I've nearly done four months back here in Derby and don't tell the council I said this or anything but BORING. Can you imagine being so bored that you cry for six hours? It was almost as if I just needed something to do. Wherein some make a mincemeat penis in times of trouble, others simply need a cuddle. Enter Mum and Dad.
They are, as I've told you Internet a thousand times before, mentalists. But they are MY mentalists. And no, I don't know what became of the mincemeat penis. But dad said something about how Jane likes the end bit.
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