My mobile rings. It's my little brother. He never, ever calls.

"Hello. Well this is a rare treat."
'Is microwave mashed potato supposed to be runny?'
"I beg your pardon?"
'Microwave mash. Runny or not?'
"I'd say not."
'Fuck. Must be because I put in some chicken soup. It's that Campbells shit. Said on the tin you can make meals and stuff with it.'
"Why are you - and I use this word loosely - cooking? Where is dad?"
'Something to do with taps.'
"Sorry?"
'Taps. Y'know, Spanish taps or something.'
"Tapas?"
'Yeah, probably. Is that, like, the Spanish for plumber or something?'
"...."
'This mash looks foul. Like fucking spew.'
"How are you anyway? How's college?"
'hjfkrkhfufflefuffle art jkdfhkidu changethefontslkjdflkdjfphotoshop'
"You're eating the pukey mash, aren't you"
'Yefff.'

Apparently we're related. I suggest the next call he makes is to the Jeremy Kyle show to request a DNA test.