Alex-the-Russian

You've probably seen the state of my floor in the previous post, but I don't remember telling you about Alex-the-Russian (dubbed so because my family gets confused and thinks I'm talking about my sister).

Alex-the-Russian is a nice bloke - he feeds slut-face his left-over lunch and I once saw him give her a banana. Also we have smoke-breaks together and talk about Australia-day celebrations. I lied about mine because I spent the day in bed lamenting the previous nights drug-intake.

Anyway, I've taken to considering Alex-the-Russian as a sort of surrogate Father that is there to whip me into place. I've recently acquired a fake job, and when he turns up I'm showered and dressed grown-up. We exchange pleasantries and he says "off to work, Sam?" and I nod "Yes, I'm going to stop in at Uni first" I say - and I get to go another day feeling as though Daddy-Alex-the-Russian approves of my behaviour. The same cannot be said for the hairy-dog-owner housemate, Robbie - upon awaking at around 10:30 Alex-the-Russian will exclaim "You sleep in late!" or "Not at work today?", thus exerting his not-so-subtle judgment upon our disgusting household.

When I return home at approximately four in the afternoon, Alex-the-Russian will say "When does your Mum return?". March. "You have to start cleaning!" he will chirp.

Once I had projectile-Josh over and we were planning our future child together whilst enjoying a pleasant cigarette in the kitchen - he came in and I jumped to attention. Putting my cigarette out, grabbing the make-shift spice-container-turned-cigarette-disposal-item and running outside, I realised that Alex-the-Russian is capable of inflicting the same fear I have of my parents when they catch me stoned on a Sunday afternoon watching True Blood.