Bottle Banks and bloody kids

 

Having grown up kids still living at home can take it’s toll. They’re worse than babies. I think I had it easier when I was changing nappies. I’m not the only one either. I met Barbara from up the road on the way to the recycling depot.

  • How was your Christmas, Bernie?
  • Same shite different year, Babs
  • That bad was it?
  • Well if you call, feeding the five thousand everyday, then doing the washing up afterwards, doing the laundry, cleaning toilets, refilling toilet roll holders every five minutes, then driving to the bottle bank to get rid of everyone elses shite, then yeah…it was that bad.
  • So you didn’t enjoy it then?
  • Ah, I suppose it wasn’t that bad. Don’t be minding me. I’m just suffering from ACBYN syndrome.
  • What?
  • After Christmas, before New Year.
  • Those few days between Christmas and New Year are the worst, aren’t they Bernie? You don’t know what the hell day it is.
  • Well, I hate when my family are selfish fuckers. The more you do, the less thanks you get.
  • Mine are the same, they take over the house and then fuck off back to their lives with ne’er a thanks or a bunch of flowers or a kiss me arse.
  • And ordering takeaways all hours of the day and night, without even asking if you’d like something. Aww no, just leave your empty pizza boxes on the floor beside your empty glasses why don’t you. I’ve a pain in me hole running after that lot. I had to get out of the house for an hour, just to get away from them.
  • Ah, fair play to you, Bernie. Are you going anywhere nice?
  • The bottle bank…again.

Well that was before New Years Eve, and you know how that ended.  I swore this year, things were going to be different…we’ll see.

 

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17 thoughts on “Bottle Banks and bloody kids

  1. With that many empty bottles to run out, you’d think everyone would be in a better mood!

    I found that week between Christmas and New Year’s lovely, but I’ve only got the one and now that he’s officially Property of the US Army he thinks I’m the greatest ever. My house isn’t so oppressive now that he’s had angry bald men shouting in his face 24/7, is it? Suddenly I’m the font of delightful baked goods and all he wants to brag about when he has to go back… seriously cannot recommend this enough; I should have sold him to a lumberjack camp when I first threatened to!

    Like

      1. lol. We used to have a convenience store near us called, “Quick Stop”. We nicknamed it “Quick Rip” because it didn’t take long to get ripped off by their prices on each visit.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. When my younger boy was little, at least once a week I’d call my husband at work and tell him I was ready to sell the little monster to the gypsies. That, or pay them to take him away!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. We had the five of them at home and only one still in school. It was like running Hotel California. We tried asking for money and got a lot of mouth, so we decided there was only one way out of it—we moved. Sold the house over their heads and moved to the countryside where they wouldn’t be seen dead. Bliss. In a way.

    Liked by 1 person

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