I hope you got a lie in after Carmel’s break up party last
night. I managed to get an extra hour, so got up about twelvish. I didn’t feel
too bad considering the amount of booze I put away. I can’t remember getting
home, but worryingly, Mum found a pair of men’s underpants in the porch this
morning. All my clothes are in a pile on the chair near my bed, so I know I
arrived home fully dressed. Who was that bloke I was talking to, late on? I know
I snogged him outside the loo, but that’s as much as I can remember. Was he
okay? Don’t tell me I snogged a minger. My street cred isn’t what it was since
that tart, Olivia, told everyone in Slappers night club, that I had crabs. I
know it must have looked like I was scratching at nits, but it was those
knickers I got from Ali’s market stall last week, they had some dodgy stitching
and were irritating me all night. I’m going to take them back on Saturday. I
paid a bloody fiver for those; Ali can do one, I’m not wearing seconds. I ended
up going commando in the end, which was very risky in that short dress I was
wearing. I had a bit of a rash round my bits next morning, though that could be
down to the fact that my razor is blunt. I think Gran’s been using it again. I
don’t know why she insists on having a Brazilian at her age. Her pubes are like
a Brillo pad: she needs a chainsaw to trim them really.
Poor Gran, she’s starting to feel her age a bit now. She’s
in her 80s, so doing really well, but her knees are giving way and she’s
struggling with the stairs now. When she stands up or sits down her knees crack
so loudly that you’d think you were down at the rifle range. Mum says we’ll
have to move her downstairs soon. We have a room at the back that’s only used to
keep Dad’s knock off fruit and veg out of the sight of prying eyes.
Gran wasn’t keen on the idea at first, but changed her mind
when she found out that Dad didn’t like the idea either. Dad said he’d have a
heart attack carting all his stuff upstairs to Gran’s room. Gran said she’d like
to see that and asked Mum to point the indoor security camera at the stairs so
she could record it and watch it over and over again.
I’ve just been listening to Dad and Gran arguing about Brexit, or should I say, the lack of it. Remember I told you about all the arguments in our house when we first had the referendum back in 2016? Well, we’re still having the same old rows. It’s like Groundpig day. No one has changed their opinion in the slightest. Dad still thinks we should stay in the European Union and that everyone who wants to leave is a racist, insular, narrow minded, myopic Nazi. Gran said that was a compliment and reckons Dad is a weak minded, spineless, yellow bellied. commie traitor and should be shot as a Quisling collaborator.
I didn’t get why Gran bought up the fact that Dad enjoys
taking part in pub quizzes during a political argument, so I looked the word up
on Google and it seems that Quisling was a Norwegian bloke who took the side of
the Nazis in the war. That puzzled me a bit, because if both their arguments are
correct, they should be on the same side.
Even Mum gets involved at times. She said that If four ex-Prime
Ministers and that nice Nick Clegg, who was nearly Prime Minister, think we
should stay in the EU, then it’s good enough for her. She’s worried that if we leave,
she might not be able to spend the 20 Euro note, left over from the day out to
France she had with the Clicking Needles, knitters’ group, last year.
I’m a bit worried about it all too if I’m honest, I mean, if
we leave Europe, we won’t belong to a continent anymore and it will cost a
fortune to reprint all those atlases. Anyway, I want to go to Malaga this
summer and if we aren’t in Europe I could be classed as stateless, like that
ISIS bride, and that might make it a bit tricky until we sort all the maps out.
How’s the jogger’s nipple? I hate that, I got it once when I
wore that hessian blouse without a bra to Bryony Chalmers’ end of engagement
party. I was really popular with the lads that night but Christ, my nipples
felt like they’d been chewed on by a starving buck toothed Piranha. I used up
three-six-packs of Greek style yoghurts trying to cool them down.
That bastard, Simon, my ex, put my name down for the wet
t-shirt competition at Tossers night club. The lousy sod said I’d be a shoo in
with my cast iron nips.
Gran’s been giving us a lecture on how tough life was back
in the 1960s tonight. It all started when Dad came home from work saying he was
going to see the doctor about getting a few days off. Mum got all worried, she
doesn’t like the idea of dad being on the sick. The last time he had a few days
off he didn’t go back for twenty years.
Hope this email finds you in good health. How’s the
ingrowing hair on your nipple? Have you had it removed yet? It looked really
sore when you showed it to me. Sorry my efforts to dig it out with my eyebrow
tweezers wasn’t successful.
Apologies for not being in touch sooner, but I felt I had to get away to think about everything, so I went down to Newquay for a fortnight. That was a waste of time. I ended up getting pissed every night in Easy Riders nightclub. Remember that place, Emma? We had some fun in there when we were on holiday with your mum and dad. How old were we, fifteen? We thought we were so grown up. You tossed that lad off in the toilets and got his stuff al over your blue skirt. I still laugh at that. You told your mum I’d spilt some superglue on it when I was trying to stick the heel back onto your shoe. If only she’d known, she wouldn’t have tried to get the stain out by handwashing it.
It began with a trivial moment of carelessness, but the shockwaves that reverberate from this seemingly insignificant incident, spread far and wide.
Ed and his heavily pregnant wife Mary are on an errand for Ed’s ailing father before the pair depart for warmer climes. But the winter of 1962 comes early and one innocuous event and a hastily taken decision will have devastating consequences for the family of young Rose Gorton. Mary’s already fragile mental state is put under further stress while Ed tries to make sense of events that are spiralling massively, Out of Control.
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