Read Online Twenty Something by Iain Hollingshead - Free Book Online
Authors: Iain Hollingshead
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Fred.
âJack, youâre the biggest hypochondriac in the world.â
âNo, Iâm not.â
âYes, you are.â
âNo, Iâm not.â
Arenât we a little old for this?
âNo, seriously, Jack. What do you do every time you have a headache?â
âI put my chin on my chest to check if Iâve got meningitis.â
Hmm, maybe he has a point.
Sunday 6th March
Mothering Sunday, and it was back home to see my âvacuous, petty, pretty and snobbyâ mother. Whom I love dearly.
I gave her a bunch of flowers, which delighted her, even if they were the wrong colour for the time of year. How was I meant to know that there was a March colour? Iâm reminded of Lucyâs comments about magenta pink.
Speaking of Lucy, thatâs exactly what Mummy did, all day long. But it was Mothering Sunday so I let her practise hermothering as she laid into me about the huge mistake I was making. I let it wash over me. I mean, what could I say to placate her?
Donât worry, Mummy, on Thursday 17th February I bent Lucy over her kitchen table and made her come within thirty seconds, so itâs all going to be OK
. I may have spent nine months inside her womb, but there are many topics parents and their offspring should keep to themselves.
Brother Ben also came home, which was nice, as I hadnât seen him since Christmas. Ben is better-looking than me, younger than me, more intelligent than me and generally nicer than me, but he wears his effortless superiority with such good-natured charm that I love him almost as much as I hate him. Heâs a medical student, so I asked him about the little lump in my bollock. He didnât have a clue â heâs only done the kidney and the right leg so far.
âYour father and I are off skiing next week,â announced Mummy as she was clearing away the pudding.
âBut youâve never been skiing before,â said Brother Ben.
âOh no, not real skiing,â replied Mummy. âI mean SKI-ing. Spending the Kidsâ Inheritance. Itâs all the rage these days. Weâre going on a five-star safari in Tanzania.â
And parents think itâs traumatic watching their children grow up? Itâs far worse the other way round.
After weâd all had enough of Mummy, Ben, Daddy and I escaped in the afternoon for the golf course â a blessedly girlfriend-/Mother-free zone. I lost seven balls and went round in 118.
Not a good day.
Monday 7th March
The lump has gone. Hallelujah â Iâm not going to die.
Another nineteen days of my Lent fast, and my flawless testicle and I will be sleeping with Claire, Mel and Susie.
Tuesday 8th March
Iâve been helping out with graduate recruitment a little bit this year â that unrivalled process which puts the likes of Rupert (bald), Buddy, Leila and me together in the same office.
We finished the first round of interviews a couple of weeks ago and it was my job to send out the rejection letters. I rather liked this riposte, which came back from a student at Oxford today:
Dear Milkround Company,
I did enjoy jeopardising my degree to meet with you on multiple occasions during December, January and February. However, despite the large quantities of expensive alcohol, food and hotel rooms you forced upon me, I have decided not to extend you an offer this time.
I know this news will come as a disappointment to you, but I must stress that I have an unprecedented number of better things to do with my life. The competition was harder than ever this year. You should focus on the positives. Iâm sure you will have plenty of other debt-ridden eager beavers clamouring to take you on.
I am collating some feedback on your performance, which should be with you just after it can be of any use for other applications. In the meantime, however, I think you need to work on the standard of your employeesâ chit-chat at post-presentation mingles. I did enjoy meeting
âJack, youâre the biggest hypochondriac in the world.â
âNo, Iâm not.â
âYes, you are.â
âNo, Iâm not.â
Arenât we a little old for this?
âNo, seriously, Jack. What do you do every time you have a headache?â
âI put my chin on my chest to check if Iâve got meningitis.â
Hmm, maybe he has a point.
Sunday 6th March
Mothering Sunday, and it was back home to see my âvacuous, petty, pretty and snobbyâ mother. Whom I love dearly.
I gave her a bunch of flowers, which delighted her, even if they were the wrong colour for the time of year. How was I meant to know that there was a March colour? Iâm reminded of Lucyâs comments about magenta pink.
Speaking of Lucy, thatâs exactly what Mummy did, all day long. But it was Mothering Sunday so I let her practise hermothering as she laid into me about the huge mistake I was making. I let it wash over me. I mean, what could I say to placate her?
Donât worry, Mummy, on Thursday 17th February I bent Lucy over her kitchen table and made her come within thirty seconds, so itâs all going to be OK
. I may have spent nine months inside her womb, but there are many topics parents and their offspring should keep to themselves.
Brother Ben also came home, which was nice, as I hadnât seen him since Christmas. Ben is better-looking than me, younger than me, more intelligent than me and generally nicer than me, but he wears his effortless superiority with such good-natured charm that I love him almost as much as I hate him. Heâs a medical student, so I asked him about the little lump in my bollock. He didnât have a clue â heâs only done the kidney and the right leg so far.
âYour father and I are off skiing next week,â announced Mummy as she was clearing away the pudding.
âBut youâve never been skiing before,â said Brother Ben.
âOh no, not real skiing,â replied Mummy. âI mean SKI-ing. Spending the Kidsâ Inheritance. Itâs all the rage these days. Weâre going on a five-star safari in Tanzania.â
And parents think itâs traumatic watching their children grow up? Itâs far worse the other way round.
After weâd all had enough of Mummy, Ben, Daddy and I escaped in the afternoon for the golf course â a blessedly girlfriend-/Mother-free zone. I lost seven balls and went round in 118.
Not a good day.
Monday 7th March
The lump has gone. Hallelujah â Iâm not going to die.
Another nineteen days of my Lent fast, and my flawless testicle and I will be sleeping with Claire, Mel and Susie.
Tuesday 8th March
Iâve been helping out with graduate recruitment a little bit this year â that unrivalled process which puts the likes of Rupert (bald), Buddy, Leila and me together in the same office.
We finished the first round of interviews a couple of weeks ago and it was my job to send out the rejection letters. I rather liked this riposte, which came back from a student at Oxford today:
Dear Milkround Company,
I did enjoy jeopardising my degree to meet with you on multiple occasions during December, January and February. However, despite the large quantities of expensive alcohol, food and hotel rooms you forced upon me, I have decided not to extend you an offer this time.
I know this news will come as a disappointment to you, but I must stress that I have an unprecedented number of better things to do with my life. The competition was harder than ever this year. You should focus on the positives. Iâm sure you will have plenty of other debt-ridden eager beavers clamouring to take you on.
I am collating some feedback on your performance, which should be with you just after it can be of any use for other applications. In the meantime, however, I think you need to work on the standard of your employeesâ chit-chat at post-presentation mingles. I did enjoy meeting
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