The Tall Tales of Daphne Monroe

Sunday 4th January.

11:00am.

I think my dad is having a nervous breakdown.

No, seriously. Hear me out.

It's either that or he's going through a mid-life crisis. But instead of doing the normal things like buying a motorbike or getting a tattoo, he does this.

To be fair, he already has a bike and WAY too many tattoos. But that's hardly the point.

But to top it all off on the insanity scale, he goes and brings crazy Granddad Tony along with us. Not that Granddad is that bothered; he's crazy wherever he is. He just rambles on about the War, although I don't know which war as the only two I know anything about are the big ones and I'm ninety nine per cent sure that Granddad Tony wasn't alive or old enough to fight in either of them.

But he rambles on anyway, and we just let him.

Only now, instead of rambling in his old man home in London, precisely twenty-two minutes away from our old house, he's doing it in front of the pub my father has just bought.

'Why?' I ask. 'Why would you do this to me? My life had only just begun.'

Dad just shakes his head in that annoying way Dads do.

'This is exactly what we need Daphne.'

Oh, yeah. My name. Apparently whilst pregnant my Mum did nothing but sit around in maternity dungarees watching some dreary American sitcom called Frasier, only she believed she was 'psychic' like the woman in it and insisted I be called Daphne and not after the other female drip called Roz.

So I guess I can be thankful for small miracles.

This, however, is no miracle. Big or small.

In fact, it's a great sodding disaster.

I tell Dad that, but just get another headshake.

'What we need is to go back home.'

'This is home now.'

I stare up at the pub.

'What do you know about owning a pub, exactly?'

'Enough. Your grandfather used to own one when I was about your age.'

I look back over my shoulder at Granddad Tony, who ten minutes ago had run screaming into the car because he thought the waves coming off the sea were the sound of bombs exploding.

'Yeah. He's going to be a great help now.'

'Shut up and go help your brother. He's already stuck in that swing.'

Well, that's charming isn't it? Speaking to your first born that way. Honestly, it's a wonder I even put up with him. Aside from only being fifteen and having nowhere else to go, I mean.

I trudge round the house over to where Billy, my ten year old brother, is currently turning an interesting shade of purple due to the rope hanging from the tree he has wrapped round his neck. Billy has an amazing knack of being able to find any way something could kill him, and then trying it out.

I guess the view from the garden isn't too bad, suffocating brother not included. You can see the sea and the beach from here, and all the windmills miles out into the ocean, lazily spinning away. It must be easy being a windmill.