We got as far as talking about Aileen's difficult pregnancy and her sons’ dramatic birth (I didn't expect any less from him) when it sounded like a bomb had exploded at the front door. It took me a second to realise someone was pummelling the door down with their fists. It couldn't be Kevin; he was spending Sunday with his homophobic father and his equally homophobic upper-class twit of a step mother. None of them wanted to be there, but it was a tradition, even if every Monday Kevin needed me to nurse him with copious vodkas and a reminder that parents, blood or not, could sometimes be ginormous pains in one’s arse. To say the least.
I heard the door swish open, but it was too late for me to ensure there wasn't an axe wielding maniac come to slaughter us whilst our fish supper spoiled in
