I found myself today talking fiveways ...
One to the internet glory that is e-mail ( No we won't fill in the form that allows to access to £20 quids direct payments a week at a cost of £12 a month, but thanks anyway HSBC )...
Two to the mobile (Sinister's sick and sobbing again)...
Three to the landline (Where Is Firstborn ?) He's walking 7 miles home in the pissing rain is where he is, but we don't know that because Sinister's got his mobile and is now tucked up in bed ... the taxi and bus-drivers pull out all the stops and start a search for a vulnerable young adult and call me back every 10 minutes ...
Four to the district nurses and social workers who can't possibly be expected to administer my confuseddotcoms mum's medications 4 times a day ... I have to do it . I conclude that they are overreacting in a Hyacinth Bouquet twirly pit of Abbeyfield Hell way, and things have a habit of sorting themselves out ...
And Five ...
To the trusty wall who absorbed all my pain and yet asked so little ...
When I had a phone at the end of each arm and was looking at the inbox in the middle , I perchanced upon the dodgy artex ...
Who you gonna call ? (it whispered hopefully )
The Plasterers ? ...
