FATHER-IN-LAW: Gareth, I need Shauna’s mobile number.
FATHER-IN-LAW: So I can text her to tell her that I got her email.
GARETH: Why don’t you just reply – och, never mind.
. . .
I tell you what’s creepy – jumpers with faux shirt collars attached to them. Because it’s just soooo much effort to put a real shirt on underneath, isn’t it. I saw this one, entitled “Phillippa”, in Monsoon the other day and her disembodied collar made me shiver. What if they turned up the heating at work and you whipped off your top, forgetting about the fakery and giving your colleagues an eyeful?
. . .
We now have a SHOWER! Gareth and his pal Steve built it with their own two hands. Four hands, actually. After three years of washing my hair with a mug of water and not once even remotely bitching about it I can now rinse with dazzling speed and accuracy. Everyone keeps saying, “Ooh I bet you’re under there for hours now” but I still can’t bring myself to stay longer than a few minutes. If I dare indulge in anything more than a brief dampening of the limbs, I expect The Mothership to pound on the door, “Get out of that bloody shower, there’s a drought on!”