“You swear too much.”
That’s what my son said, shaking his homemade swear box.
“A pound a swear word. All for a good cause.”
Then he left, slamming the front room door. Loudly.
I swore at him.
Cost me two quid.
Day Two. He started a fight with his sister.
Cost me four quid.
Day Three. He took my car without asking.
Cost me five quid.
Day Four. He lost the garage keys.
Cost me seven quid.
Day Five. He stole the swear box and went out with mates.
A bloody good cause.
I swear; one day, I’ll kill him.