Mattress Dancing

I feel rather fatigued. I dragged my weary body and dad's heavy bags back from the Isle of Wight this afternoon, without dad sat by the window seat. The silly fool has been up to his old tricks again, engaging in carnal gymnastics with energetic widows who have nothing better to do. After a heated conversation with my Team Leader I begged off work and arrived at Mrs Maithwaite's seaside residence in Shanklin to discover dad propped up by three plump feather pillows on her leather armchair, eating a homemade steak and ale pie and listening to Radio Four. Turns out he has slipped a disc and Mrs Maithwaite was only too happy to wait on my poor, suffering father, whilst muggins here took buses about the island for his strange, healing lotions and potions (Emu Oil anyone?!). As I type the lucky fella is still recuperating down south whilst I must face the unpleasant consequences of taking unplanned leave at work tomorrow.