I live with my Grandparents, i'm sure some of you know. Bernie - the cynical hag, who spends 7 months of every year drunk, and the other 5 months sitting with me at the kitchen table, bitching about everyone else in the world. And Sean - the mysterious old man that spends 12 months of the year writing letters to someone infront of his 48-inch television. We have a good relationship. Seany in his living room, bernie in her kitchen, and me in my bedroom for the most part.
Above us, in 64B, live Wayne and Tom. A gay couple. For a few months, Tom has been making crude and pervacious advances toward me on Grindr, which I politely went along with until I obtained his and Wayne's wifi password, then I blocked him.
Wayne is an Australian. He has a mother called Rosemarie (Don't worry, this story does actually go somewhere). She is a devout catholic, or so i've heard, and she, while wanting to visit England in the past, was abhored by the idea of homosexuality. And in a grand falling-out with Tom one day, everyone thought it best that Rosemarie, on her frequent stays in the UK locate herself downstairs, with the other old people. At this juncture in their saga, I was about to leave for a holiday, and only met Rosemarie once, on my departure. A svelte, 5'10 figure, with healthy curls of waist length grey hair appeared from the top of the stairs. "Are you Luke?" she smiled. Her pearly white teeth resonating through the unholy darkness, "God bless on your travels! And God tells me we will meet again!"
"God tells me we won't, because you're very old, and you live in Australia" I thought. How wrong I was. Rosemarie returned last week. This time I am here to witness her first hand, and can finally understand why my grandmother chose, of all the descriptives available to call this God-loving woman, a "Cunt".