24th October 2007 - Talking ballocks - there's a novelty

"There's something wrong that trams going way too fast! There's going to be a smash!" Dad shouted at me pointing at an imaginary disaster he was watching play out just for him in the day room. After I convinced him he didn't need to dodge the flying wreckage and that it was safe to walk over the 'burning fireness' we sat down - with our backs to the twisted metal and carnage - obviously - unless it put us off our tea and cake.

"Marshmallow ground polish windows forget-me-not, don't you think?"
"Twig twig twigle my foot. Often over and green. Don't you agree?"

I wish I could just say "you're talking ballocks Dad". But I don't. And in truth ballocks wouldn't have much to say I'm sure. They wouldn't be high on the conversationlist league, perhaps - afterall they see very little in their 3 score and ten on the planet. Most of their lives they spend in the dark, emerging only briefly to dangle perilously close to being doused in all manner of unpleasantness.
So you'd expect them not to have much by way of small talk or chat, but they couldn't fail to make more fucking sense that he did today.

But, once again, the only sense that came out of his mouth were the words "living nightmare" that he spoke as he rubbed his hands over his face as he held head. Please let those just be two more words, please let them have as much meaning to him as "twig twig twigle my foot". Please, don't let him mean them.