Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Tuesday, 23 December 2014
2014 comes to an end and what a year it's been!
The council finally gave the go-ahead for the eight-foot security fence which will divide us from the dreadful couple who live next door, and is being erected as I write by a team of Poles who seem quite happy to do the job for £2 less than the minimum wage, and don't seem to mind working at a time when everyone else is madly spending money instead of earning it.
This has produced a bit of a moral dilemma for us though, because we are wondering how the election of the new UKIP member we voted in is going to impact on the cheap foreign labour in our neighbourhood. I suppose we will just have to put our money where our mouths are, and pay through the nose in the future.
We were hoping that the eldest would be let out on compassionate leave to join us for Christmas, and this may have been the case if he had not broken the legs of a suspected paedophile on his wing. As it turned out, the bloke was just between cell-mates which was why he was in solitary, but you can never be too careful. It could be worse. I hear they are allowed a can of lager on the 25th. Let's hope it's alcohol-free - he's a nightmare after a drink or two, and it won't do him any good with the parole board!
His sister is coming round on the day, and we are dreading it. It's not so much her - she is no trouble at all when she's pissed, she just falls into a coma and we don't hear a peep for 12 hours. It's more to do with her boys, who nobody can control - not even the professionals. I expect that both sets of foster parents will be glad of a break from them, even if it is only for 24 hours.
The youngest is showing no sign at all of finding himself a job, nor does he look as though he is ever going to move out so we can let the spare room, and heaven knows we could do with the cash. He just uses the place as a hotel, sleeping all day and out all night. I don't know where he finds the money, but I have my suspicions.
On the rare occasions when he is home before 10 o'clock, the doorbell is constantly ringing and the traffic between the outside and his bedroom is like Piccadilly bloody Circus. Not one of them stays for longer than three minutes, so they can't exactly be having a discourse on the meaning of life.
Not that we ever see a penny of his ill-gotten gains. You would think that with the turnover that he must have, he could at least give Her Indoors a few quid toward the housekeeping, but that seems to be a bit too much to ask.
I suppose we are going to have to visit her mother sometime around Christmas too, but I ask you - what's the point when she doesn't even know the name of the current Prime Minister? Actually, now I think about it, neither do I.
Its the same every year since we put her in the home. They all sit around with paper hats on, staring blankly at the walls with saliva coming from the corners of their mouths while some old fart plays music from the 1930s on a badly-tuned piano. It's so bloody depressing and I can never wait to leave.
To tell the truth, I will be glad when it's all over so we can get back to normal.