“Hogs Breath is really shit!”
My ears pricked up but the aroma of a hogs breath infused my senses.
“Really shit?” A vision of a penned hog standing fecaly, whilst her free range mate waded fetlock deep in shit gave a sort of piquancy to its “really shit.”
“The potato jacket was like leather,couldn’t hardly cut it, the guts of the potato had been taken out and mashed and the squashed back in to the skin with sour cream.”
An elegant description of a commercial way to present mash.
“And the veggies, well they might as well been served raw!”
“The Poor Little Tyke [PLT] could hardly eat ’em.”
And so commenced a litany of familial and generational MS, Parkinson’s etc to which I tuned out.
PLT was apparently a screech when he got his first electric wheelchair, haring out of the physio area when he had been told to slow down. He couldn’t wait to get back to the 40 square house his parents had provided when he got his payout.
“What payout? I wondered
“They are spending his money like it’s going outta fashion. Trips here and there, the house but it’s really his money,” I heard.
Clunk, my head hurt. What on earth have we done I thought. Give money to kids to look after kids. I could sense my blood starting to boil and that this guardianship of another’s money pot leads to all sorts of compromises.Sure as I heard there were minuscule reasons for the trips associated with PLT’s condition, a quack diagnosis here another one there. I particularly liked the way there were little fund raisers held when there was already funds available.
Ah well we sympathise with the parents, well don’t we ? Anyway when the money’s gone and PLT is old there’ll be a pension, won’t there?