Violent introduction

Every once in a while, when we need to restock the things we can’t find in Zurich, such as decent bacon, sausages, or sarcasm, we head back to home to replenish our supplies. This has the added benefit of reminding us of the things that keep us from returning permanently. Within a minute of dragging my girlfriend’s gargantuan suitcase onto a hellishly packed tube, from whichever squalid London airport we’ve eventually fought our way out of, I am screaming oaths to never return again and demanding to know who I have to marry to switch nationalities.

Currently we are on one such misadventure. This time, we have been begrudgingly released from work for an entire week. At first I had grandiose intentions of spending this glorious escape from my office engaging in the most soul-nourishing of pursuits, namely lying horizontally on a sofa, watching football at every waking moment and occasionally replenishing my beer. My better half however, master of the diary that she is, had other ideas. Apparently after two and half years, it is time to meet The Father. So, stopping at my parents on the way, we are making our way to the outpost of Cornwall in which he lives, and I am prepping up on how sensible, likeable, sleeping-with my daughter type people are supposed to behave.

I have a history when it comes to bringing her on visits to my family. Although I suspect they have all liked her far more than they ever have me from the first meeting, I can normally be relied upon to make some gaff or error of judgment which cements their position still further. Last Christmas for instance, I thought I’d fire a party popper at her. As well, however, as failing to notice that I was probably too close to perform this in the jocular manner in which it was intended, I also had not been informed that this was the year mum had replaced the normal party poppers with anti-aircraft artillery. The thing detonated in her face with a shockwave that nearly blew me out of my chair. Once the mushroom cloud of glitter had subsided and she had pulled the shards of paper shrapnel from her eyes, I was left with a very upset girlfriend and a feeling of deep remorse. Things were not helped when during the same meal I managed to make each of my two younger sisters cry, with ill judged comments about phone bills and an excellently aimed throw of a piece of salmon. The look on my mother's face as she glanced down the table, to see me surrounded by three weeping girls, couldn’t have been etched with more disappointment if I’d just announced my intention to quit my job to start a satanic church of bestiality.

Once again on this visit I have not failed to disappoint. On a trip to walk the dog earlier today, I slipped and managed to push her over in saving myself. Judging by the looks of horror held by my parents and grandparents as they took in the blood soaked, sobbing picture before them, it must have seemed like I’d simply decided to throw her to the ground for kicks.

So, having made every effort once again to disinherit myself, I move on tomorrow to meet her ex-military father. May God have mercy on my soul.