Thick skin

Me: Stop picking on Mum. You’re a couple of bullies.

Mum [pointing at ears]: Darling, it’s like the Trans-Siberian Railway in here.

Me: … What does that even mean? That it takes three weeks for a thought to pass through?

Dad: It’s like a wind tunnel.

Mum: Passes like a bullet.

Sister: Because sometimes conversations with you make us want to shoot ourselves?

Dad: It’s a vacuum in there, sucking thoughts through before they even touch the sides.

Me: It’s a tundra–

Dad: –where the landscape is so desolate no blighted thought can grow.

Mum: I have to have thick skin.

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