fancy dad

“Why do you download music illegally, Lola?” he asked me in his unbearably posh accent. It’s the sort of accent that comes with people who use seasons as verbs. “Well of course I used to summer there but have you heard . . . ”

I snatched my Ipod back from him. “It’s there. What do you suggest?” He smiled, checked the side of his hand to see if I’d scratched him. “Buy it, of course. What do you have against spending money?” I sighed. I could either make it long and less painful or short and quite painful: “I don’t have money to spend. If I had it I’d spend it.” His eyes widened in horror. One of the great unwashed is standing before me! And I had no idea! “I – ahem, I, am, well – ”

“Are you going to say ‘sorry’? You’re sorry?”

“I was going to, yes.”

“Don’t. Please. Unless you feel like giving me a bonus.”

The more money they have, the less inclined they are to share it. The only people who actually ever try to help me out are self-described ‘poor fucks’ – now them, they’d give you their last Cheeto.

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