I have just returned from visiting my parents as they live approximately seven minutes and twenty-five seconds away from my flat (located above the cafe* as you're undoubtedly aware.) I always find socialising mentally and physically taxing and as my elderly Great Aunt Dorothy turned up in the Age Concern Minibus today, I felt doubly awful. Don't get me wrong, Aunt Dorothy was an amazing woman back in the day, but she's now a shadow of her former self, preferring to spend her entire time moaning about how the series of carers are stealing off of her and so on. I did state that she was very lucky to receive such support, but she immediately turned her hearing aid down to avoid conflict. Father got very stressed too and before I left I spied him writhing around the garden once more in his human earthworm costume - here's hoping that the concrete layer located one metre from the surface will curtail his burrowing instincts.
Mother and Father mentioned on more than one occasion today that it would be a nice idea for me to return home and 'give up that expensive gravy-scented flat'. I answered that I really appreciated my independence, but they both sighed, looked sad and said no more about it. I'm a renter, it's true and the additional £825 (plus bills) per calendar month would come in handy to build my savings back up to their 2010 heyday, but I've changed over the past couple of years and don't think that I could cope with my Father's strange habits and Mother's disapproving glances.
I went to the Co-op later on; my favourite shop assistant wasn't there. More's the pity.
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