Matchu

Distilled, my character blended, and churned, addition, the dash [tabasco, bucket splash @ 50%] of the English aristocracy crazy horse, so-called. And the result was a boy child raised properly at the turn of this century.
‘Hooray,’ I cried for those first eighteen years, and I cried for the next eight.
I am crying today.
For several months now the telephone calls:
‘I have no shoes, it is snowing. What are you going to do about this, you old bastard. I am sleeping in dustbins again. Happy Christmas.’
…disturbed me somewhat during shifts spent among mental health charges, my angels, angels with the dirty faces really, so I passed the spoon over…
‘Really Jacob, feed me. I have given up all hope, despair lies everywhere.’
Because, because today there is a God because, son says so for one thing, but for my thing I am proud, purchasing the little pillock a caravan, and parked at our expense, of course on a juicy hippy farm site. He can play the guitar all day.
Love
A.M Parenting