Fat Sister was on the phone to my dad earlier, discussing the on-going work on her bathroom. She had to go next door because every time she started a sentence with ‘I’ll…’ my tics made an inappropriate suggestion about what she’d be doing:

“I’ll… be fucking myself with a pair of shoes.”
“I’ll… be fucking myself with a pair of wellies .”
“I’ll… be fucking myself with a pair of plimsolls”
“I’ll… be fucking myself with a pair of hobnail boots.”

My dad, impatient with her giggling and keen to talk about bathrooms, told her to shut her eyes.

My dad may know a thing or two about plumbing and DIY, but I’m concerned that his understanding of the mechanics of hearing leaves a little to be desired.