Home is...
... where the first thing that happens when you walk through the door after being away for three years is to be accosted for money and have the cat howling at you to be fed. The second thing is realising that there's no milk in the house and you need to go to the 24 hour supermarket after a 6 hour drive with a van full of rubbish.
Ah, it's good to be home though. Really good. Tonight, tanks to the parental units being away, middle brother has decided we're having a barbecue. Complete with 20 of his mates, crates of beer and, no doubt, a garden full of vomit for me to clean up in the morning. *sigh* I'm no prude by any stretch of the imagination, I just hate having to clean up after a bunch of people who are old enough and wise enough (i.e. over 21. But then they're male so it takes longer) to know better. All good fun. But I'm not that arsed. I've been promised food and beer so I'll just rob the Wii and take it upstairs. Watch a couple of DVD's, then laugh my ass off as a bunch of drunk men try to work out where it's gone. They'll be screams of 'We've been robbed!'. Yeah, of a Nintendo Wii, a couple of bottles of beer and burger and nothing else.... God, you've got to love drunk people. And, thankfully, I no longer have to deal with them for 18 hours a day, 7 days a week. I've decided that, if there is a hell, and if I'm going there then mine will either an eternity of serving drunk people in a pub, 10,000 years of walking around an Ikea on a Saturday listening to inane Swedish muskak and watching as people fight over the last pack of 4 million tea lights OR serving stupid customers in a thrift store. I can't decide what's worse...
Right, time to go get out the barbie... >__