For the record, I love my parents (at least, I think they’re my parents. They haven’t shown me any ID and they insist on using aliases like “Mum” and “Dad”). I would do anything to make them proud, but that doesn’t give them the right to make requests whenever they want. I am not a DJ…
Thanks to first-rate parenting, divine guidance and loose regulations governing teenage drinking, I’ve managed to drag my sorry carcass into its 20th year of life (unfortunately, I dropped my brain somewhere around the 5th year mark and I’m too lazy to go retrieve it). Before now, I was the last-born, only son, apple of my mother’s eye, spoilt till I cried sour-milk and shielded so much I may as well have been born in a Kevlar plant. Now I’m at the big 2-0 a lot has changed. The most noticeable change is my mother’s sudden interest in my “love-life” (still yet to be discovered, but we have our top scientists working on it. They’re aiming to land a woman on Cero before the year 2030). More specifically, the issue of marriage… and (**cringe**) offspring...
