Bugging Out

The house is our own once more. It's not that George, my father-in-law, is difficult to get on with, far from it, but 48 hours start to stretch a bit with anecdotes that go nowhere; opinions based on Scotch mist; and presumed knowledge passed off as fact. And that's before mentioning talking over telly programmes (not that we watched much), and over-riding pessimism when presented with any scenario. All tagged with a pride that won't let him admit that he doesn't know something (a year round problem that sees him constantly describing problems on his bike that are driving him towards selling it, despite me offering numerous times to take it down here, pop it on the workstand, and fix it for him).

Honestly, I couldn't ask for a nicer father-in-law; nor a more unintentionally infuriating one.

But he's back home now, having left behind one last Christmas present, a lovely dose of the cold that has taken hold tonight.

A bug.

If you like.