Boilers

My father had a celebratory OBE lunch the other day. He invited 23 friends and family members to the local pub for a slap-up Sunday lunch. It was quite pleasant, not least because I'm happy that my father has actually got some friends. For as long as I can remember he has appeared to operate entirely in a social vaccuum filled by my mother's rambling stream-of-consciousness conversational style and occasional visits from more family-minded cousins.

I am concerned that the OBE has swollen his head quite substantially. Post-lunch coffee was hosted at my parents' house where the dining room had been turned into a shrine to my father's greatness. The OBE medal was there, surrounded by photos of the ceremony and an entire scrap book full of press clippings and letters of congratulation clearly made using Word's mail merge function. The reverently laid out dining room table was pushed back against the wall to provide floor space for prostrate worshippers.

Further, he had applied to get a family coat-of-arms (which are entitled to now) and only stopped when he realised it would cost GBP3500.

I fear for what I will find the next time I return home (henceforth to be known as Dring Manors). A butler perhaps, or a command to never turn my back on the newly esteemed head of household. Even more frightening is the knowledge that genetics and environment dictate he is exhibiting behaviours that I will inherit thirty years from now.