don’t even start, yeah? Don’t— I’ve had it. GCash. Absolute nightmare. This workmate of mine? Lazy as hell. Doesn’t do anything. Just sits there, finger up his arse, and every bloody job gets thrown at me. “Oh, can you handle this?” Yeah, apparently I can handle EVERYTHING. I’m the donkey, I’m the mule, I’m the bloody packhorse of GCash. Rough? Rough?! I get home, yeah, I’ve heated up me crinkles — my crinkles, with the cheese, the melty gooey stuff in the middle, heaven on Earth — and the lot’s gone! Vanished! Like a magic trick. Houdini snuck in and nicked ‘em. I didn’t even get a sniff. A sniff, man! And do you think anyone cleans up after? Nah, course not. Who’s there picking up the plates, the cups, the spoons, the forks, the bloody Tupperware lids? Me! Always me. I’m not living in a house, I’m running a diner. I’m a one-man Waffle House at three in the morning. Oh, and then, mate — this is the kicker — mum pulls up in the car. Doesn’t even say hello. Straight at me: “Oi! You not gonna move your car?!” Like I’m her personal valet. I half-expect her to chuck me a quid and say, “Don’t ding the doors, sunshine.” And you know what? I’m generous! I’m too generous! Always giving my brother gifts — birthdays, Christmas, random Tuesdays — handing ‘em out like I’m Santa bloody Claus. And what do I get? Nothing! Not even half a crinkle. Not even the crumbs at the bottom of the box. I don’t even get the cheese grease!