My sister's recent love-life could provide a soap opera with at least a year's worth of plots. Seriously, it's that tempestuous. It'd take forever to recap it all in depth (but believe me, it's worth hearing!), so here is a brief timeline, to fill you in:
June '06: Big Sister arrives back from Italy, gets job in Cambridge
September '06: The Italian decides he will move to England to be with her. Big Sister gets flat sorted for her and The Italian.
October '06: The Italian arrives. Says he will 'learn English then get job'. The Italian attends English course.
November '06: The Italian isn't getting up until 2pm, owes Big Sister money and hasn't found a job yet. He puts it all down to suffering from 'strange rashes' and depression.
December '06: The Italian goes back to Italy with his tail between his legs still owing Big Sister money.
January '06: Big Sister returns to Italy for last ditch attempt at reconciliation BUT The Italian's rash is diagnosed as crabs.
Today: Sister returns from Italy to put end to both relationship and pubic lice.
So, not only did my sister discover that her (sort-of) ex-boyfriend was carrying on with other girls over the summer while she worked like a POW to save up for their flat, he was also having unprotected sex with them and actually contracting bonafide sexual diseases. I don't know what's funnier; the fact that he tried to fob her off and tell her the doctor had told him that he could have contracted the lice by 'picking up a dirty object', or the fact that he, a thirty year old man, sent his father to the chemist to get the topical ointment because he was too embarrassed to do it himself!
More hilarious was my father's face this morning when my mother informed him that the surrogate son he has been mourning for the last few weeks, the golden-boy who he took golfing and out job-hunting, was carrying the bi-product of infidelity around in his tight, Italian-designer boxer shorts the whole time he was in the UK.
Mother consulted me about how to end a text to my sister beginning with 'What a...'. My suggestion of 'cock' was rejected with the milder euphemism 'knob'.
I'd have stuck with cock myself. Not his though, because it's covered in dirty scuttling little crabs.