I have recently become aware of a somewhat upsetting fact. Before I moved into the lovely, if rather shabby home I am now in, the boys made a bet with each other to see who could make me cry first. Aoife, in her usual perceptive way, found this out and called a halt to it before any damage could be done. All the same, I worry that there has been some kind of unofficial recommencement recently. In the past week, I have fled the sitting room five times in an effort to avoid extremely explicit banter. This, admittedly, was unwise. Sensing my discomfort, the boys have stepped up their antics and expanded their vocabulary considerably. Both are already committed fans of the seedy underworld of porn, human perversions and extremely criminal behaviour which features frequently in The Sun and other such rags but the last few days has tested even their limits of imagination and experience.
What began as lewd and demeaning comments whenever a female came on the screen or was mentioned in conversation has degenerated into a foul onslaught of curses, obscene suggestions, gratuitous toilet humour and the passing of gas. 'I love it when she puts her fingers to her temples and sighs, don't you?' chuckled Burt last night at my response to his description of exactly what he would do to Angelina Jolie if he ever got a chance.
This cannot go on. I am not cut out for situations like these. I'm just too much of a lady.