The events of last Tuesday have left the whole of the Weaver family in shock. Father had suffered a minor heart attack whilst attending, what I can only describe as 'an orgy of filth and decadence'. His argument was that he had an ongoing back problem since falling off a pedalo in Great Yarmouth in 1987 and the NHS had failed him, hence he'd been attending Marilyn's Massage Parlour for stilletto based acupuncture. Mother's a tolerant woman, but it's more than she can stand.
Father's still in hospital but she's busy turning the smallest bedroom into a place where he can recuperate. I've moved the large computer into the dining room and we've purchased some lovely nets for privacy. Mother was too distraught to visit Father today and decided to watch pre-recorded editions of the QVC Birkenstock shows instead so I went alone. He looked old, tired and sad in his winceyette pyjamas (with a drawstring waist, anything else just falls down according to Mother). It was a lovely day but Father just stared out of the window in despair. "What on earth must she think of me?" was his refrain, but I couldn't answer truthfully. Time is a great healer so they say, but will it be enough for Mother and Father's fractured marriage?
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