I love my dad. Really.
I haven't had too many dealings with the local council, although there have been enough for me to realise they really are utter cunts.

I do, however, recall an instance back in the days when mum still dressed me.
My sisters and I, ready for school, were interrupted by the sound of dad cursing at the top of his lungs from outside. Mum ran out to see what was the matter (and we poked out heads just past the front door to see what was happening).

Oh no. They couldn't be that incompetant.

During the night, the council had taken it upon themselves to repair the street. Not the whole street, mind you, just the short stretch in front of the driveway of my parents house. That's right. No driving was to be done for a while.

You'd think the council would have informed those who'd be affected by it. Did they? Did they fuck.

My father, who's one of those scary people you don't want to be on the wrong side of, called the council and gave them a long, loud and abusive piece of his mind, telling them in no uncertain terms exactly what their little fiasco had cost my parents and where they could go stick their resurfaced road.

I've no idea exactly what dad said, but I've got to start learning things from him. Both parents received cheques from the council for their "patience and undue stress".

Result.
(is0lati0n, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 9:53, Reply)