Continued Adventures in Living with my Parents

It turns out there is something worse than the conspiracy YouTube videos that my dad was watching on the big telly at an unsettlingly loud volume, and it's my mum's favourite tv channel which appears to be one that exists purely to show reruns of 2007 episodes of Judge Judy. All day. Every day.

So now my dad is watching his conspiracy nonsense on his iPad, but not with headphones on because that would be considerate of the reality based members of the household, and he keeps turning the volume up because he's trying not to hear Judge Judy, and mum keeps turning Judge Judy up because if she has to hear the conspiracy crap there's going to be a row.

Meanwhile I have taken to walking around with headphones in like a stroppy teenager. Today I found myself listening to The Black Album by Metallica at genuinely earsplitting volume, which was what I did back when I actually was a stroppy teenager.

Mum is coping with her severely restricted mobility in unsurprising fashion, by directing an extremely epic spring cleaning effort, but because she can't see anything other than the room her bed is set up in dad has decided that all we need to do is move the mess one room over. Hopefully I will no longer be here by the time he is found out.

Dad appeared downstairs today with a bunch of old work shirts, and mum immediately demanded to know why he wasn't throwing them straight out.

Dad: I thought Gillian might want them.
Mum: Why on Earth would your adult daughter want old men's work shirts?
Me, holding a Ben Sherman shirt circa 1997 up and doing a little twirl: I do actually want these.
Dad: Told you.
Mum, fuming: Why?
Me: I'm going for a very specific look here.
Mum: What look?
Me, thinking about how well the orange plaid will go over my Weyland-Yutani t-shirt: ...nerd lumberjack?
Mum, silent, fuming: ...