My brother and sister-in-law were visiting today. And my father for once was doing quite well, distracted probably by the drone of the cricket in the background. He had managed, by lunchtime, to restrain himself and not make any particularly offensive comments – which was a minor miracle.
But lunchtime passed, and as the plates were cleared away – my father leaned forward. His withered body uncurling from his saggy armchair, his nicotine stained finger pointing wildly at my sister-in-law’s shoes.
“Your feet” He hissed in glee, “are looking in amazing. How much did you pay for them?”
My sister-in-law was understandably confused and looked down at her perfectly painted toenails, shaking her head in bewilderment
“I mean, you must have had a foot transplant.” He continued eagerly. “Or purchased those ones on Ebay, because they look great.”
“Thank you…?” She replied, still uncertain what he was blathering on about.
Unfortunately we were about to find out.
“Well to be honest sweetheart the last time I saw your feet they looked f*****g awful.”
It’s lucky my sister-in-law has a sense of humour, or like the rest of rest ignores the s**t tumbles out of my dear old Dad’s mouth, because I should add that there is nothing wrong with her feet and as far as I recall there never has been either.
(And this is coming from the man who empties a room when he peels off his favourite stripy socks to reveal the greying and swollen matter they contain.)
But yet again, he sat back in his chair with a “well, what have I said?” on his winkled expression.
And yet again he left the room speechless….