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My Sundays always go up in smoke

Have I mentioned I hate Sundays? Or, just you know, don't enjoy 'em very much? They always start in the same way, with a phone call at the crack of dawn -- and by that, I mean: the crack of dawn. My dad. Asking me to bring him some fags, as he's out of them completely. And then the same conversation ensues every. f*cking. Sunday:

Me: "Dad. It's Sunday. The shops don't open until 12 noon."
Dad: "What?"
Me: "It's Sunday. I can't get you your fags until noon."
Dad: "You're rubbish you are. You know they're the only thing that make my life bearable, and you can't be bothered to get me some now?!"
Me: ::sigh:: "I'll see you later, Dad."
Dad: "Don't you do me any favours!" ::slams phone down on me::
Me: "Aaaaargggghh!"

Then when I get there, I notice the cat hasn't been fed probably all weekend, her litterbox hasn't been changed in a week, and Dad won't be interested in any small-talk until he's had at least two cigarettes one after the other.

Oh well. Better go get him his blasted smokes. Toodlepip.

Comments

deborahw37
Nov. 5th, 2006 01:40 pm (UTC)
You'll have to try getting fags on a Saturday and them unlugging the phone till a decent hour :)
gamiila
Nov. 5th, 2006 02:46 pm (UTC)
It's not that, it's...if he wants his damn fags so badly, he can go get them himself, can't he? Why do I have to travel miles out of my way to go bring him some?
I know, it's because he has gone through his allowance for the week by Saturday, and Mum always brings him cash and cigarettes on Monday. It doesn't matter how much money and how many packets of smokes she brings him either, 'cause he'll fritter it away and by the weekend, he'll have nothing left.

But most of all, it's his whining that gets to me. Seems all I'm good for is as a provider of cigarettes these days.