me old fellow

I'm back living with mum and dad. jesus, I've lived in more homes than Oliver Twist. Me sister and Graham have slung me out for digging up his mum. How the fuck was I to know they'd sprinkled her ashes under the apple tree in the back garden? [see short story link "groundforce" below for a full account of events].
The thing is ... I don't know how long I can live under the same roof as my old fellow. The bloke drives me round the fucking bend. It'll end up either he'll kill me with his nagging or I'll kill him with a sharp sabatier kitchen knife. the moment I set a foot in the door he's on me. It was alright when I was a kid because he was never there. Now, all he does is disagree with everything I say. The bloke is always right about everything … always. He just nags nags nags. and there's never a break from him. he's always in the house. he never goes out with his mates anymore because he hasn't got any mates anymore. he just sits there, disagreeing with everything everyone says.

the scariest thing of all though is ... I can see myself in the old bastard.