Sunday, 2 August 2009

Voyage Round My Father's Head

Note to Reader: These conversations take place in 2-3 minute bursts - the estimated time that a horse race takes from They're Off! to the winner being officially declared. Some of the conversations take place during the 60 seconds or so between horse races. This may go some way to explaining the disjointed nature of the communication.

All conversations take place on the telephone, so imagine you are on a third party line, listening in.

Father: Has your mother called you?
Daughter: Not recently. Why?
Father: So she hasn't told you what I've done?
Daughter: What have you done?
Father: Fifty to win
Daughter: What?
Father: Shush, I'm on my mobile.
Father: Okay, thanks. It's like this; your brother's pal, the journalist?
Daughter: Mark?
Father: That's the one. Well he says the writing's on the wall for newspapers
Daughter: On newsprint, surely?
Father: What?
Daughter: Nothing.
Father: And he thinks journalists need to diversify.
Daughter: Okay...
Father: And do things like ghost write autobiographies.
Daughter: Mmmm?
Father: So I'm paying him £30 an hour to write mine.
Daughter: WHAT?
Father: He's charging me half-price as a loss leader
Daughter: Loss-maker.
Father: What?
Daughter: Nothing.
Father (TETCHY): I wish you'd stop interrupting. Useless nag!
Daughter: I'm hanging up now.
Father: Not you. The bloody horse. So we've got up to 1963 -
Daughter: And Duckenfield Victoria and your football injury.
Father: What?
Daughter: The injury that caused you to have your hip replaced forty-two years later.
Father: You're in a mood. You're upset because I haven't asked you to write my book.
Daughter: Not the ten rounds of golf you play each week.
Father: Mark needs the money.
Daughter: You've just made me redundant.
Father: It's better man-to-man.
Daughter: You mean you'd rather not tell me what you've been up to.
Father: I'd get more sense talking to your mother!
Daughter: Why don't you?
Father: She's not talking to me at the moment.
Daughter (UNDER HER BREATH): Can't think why.
Father: The Favourite. One hundred.
Daughter: Where are you?
Father: My office.
Daughter: In the bath, then?
Father: I'll ring you back. Your mother's shouting something.

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