Wednesday, 24 June 2009

My Dad is crazy.

Some of you may already know this, but it wasn't until yesterday that I became completely sure.

See, the old man is kicking back and relaxing on hols at the moment. He was meant to fly out about ten or so days ago but was told he couldn't fly due to an ear infection. Not to put up with having his time in the sun taken away from him, the crazy old coot DROVE over one thousand miles to Barcelona to get his tan on Something which is not only crazy in itself, but coupled with the fact that there is a perfectly good beach 2 minutes walk from here makes it positively kooky.

But I digress. The single underlining fact that should put my happy old man on the next cart to cuckoo town was the phone call he made to me yesterday. It seems that before he went away he'd asked a fellow to re-chrome a bumper for him and he was now curious as to the fellow's progress. So taking a break from his sunbathing, Dad calls me up to ask me to call this fellow (who is in the same area as me) to ask about the bumper's progress. Not a hard task by any means, but still I had to ask why? Why couldn't dad have just phoned him instead of me? Why was I required to play middle man to these two old men and their boring talks about bits of rust?

You know why dad didn't just phone him? Because it would to too expensive to call all the way from Barcelona to England.

Cuckoo I tell you. Off with the fairies.

G.

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