Biff, Chip and Kipper and the Sunday Night

It is Sunday evening.

This is Mum.

Mum is looking forward to a quiet relaxing evening in front of the television.

“Has everyone got their stuff ready for school tomorrow?” asks Mum.

This is Chip.

Chip has suddenly remembered what he did with his school uniform when he came home from school on Friday night.

Chip did not put his school uniform in the washing basket like Mum asked him to.

Chip added his school uniform to the festering pile of filthy school uniform under his bed.

To be honest, Chip would have left his school uniform there, were it not for the fact he now has no clean school uniform left and does not want to go to school naked.

Chip brings the festering pile of school uniform downstairs for Mum to wash.

This is Biff.

Biff suddenly has a vague recollection that there was something she was supposed to do for school tomorrow.

Biff remembers that she is supposed to have made a model of a motte and bailey castle out of the recyclable materials she has in her home.

Biff goes to break this joyous news to Mum.

Mum wonders whether it is possible to create a motte and bailey castle in less than five minutes, solely out of empty gin bottles.

This is Kipper.

Kipper brings his reading book to Mum.

Mum constructs the motte and bailey castle out of empty gin bottles with her left hand, loads festering school uniform into the washing machine with her right hand, and listens to Kipper tell her that C-A-T spells CROCODILE with the remaining part of her soul which has not already been crushed and broken into tiny pieces.

This is Dad.

Dad has taken Floppy the fucking liability for a walk.

It is a lovely summer’s evening and Dad and Floppy have stopped off at the pub for a leisurely pint on the way home.

Dad arrives home to find Mum on her twelfth load of washing, a gin bottle superglued to her left hand from where the motte and bailey castle went to shit, and pleading in histrionic tones “Just, please, read the fucking letters which are fucking written on the fucking page, that’s all I fucking ask.”

“I do love Sunday evenings,” says Dad. “Aren’t they lovely and relaxing.”

Oh, Dad.

No, Dad.

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