Bank Holiday

My brother, Hector, telephoned and asked if he could come over for the holiday. I was not too keen - I mean, we are not exactly close. He used to go out with the lesbian before me. In fact is was through Hector that I met her. He dumped her and she rebounded into me.
Of course she said she only went out with him because he had a motor bike - and I, like the fool I am, believed her.
Eight months later, Eric was born. Note that: eight months. She said he was premature but I am sure he is Hector's son; he even looks like him. Of course I brought him up as my own; that is until he joined the Air Force as a 'boy entrant'. Done well for himself though: he's a sergeant cook, stationed in Wiltshire. We never see him.

Needless to say, the lesbian is delighted Hector is visiting. She wants us all (including the Swedish tart) to go to an exhibition of 'Feminist Art' - whatever that is - says it will be a way to really get to know one another again: bond - I hate that expression.

I don't know where he's going to sleep - Hector. He's not having my bed. The lesbian says he can doss on the futon in her room. Fine by me. If he thinks he's on a good thing there, he's in for a shock. He doesn't know about her switching tracks, so to speak.

Anyway, I'm off down the pub for lunch.