Home, they say, is where the heart is. Seriously, another cliché is not what I need right now. Although if by ‘heart’ they mean ‘overworked organ thanklessly pumping out one’s life blood’ then maybe it is more spot on than most such folksy tripe. Cut my heart out and hand it to me on a bed of disapproval and disappointment: ah, feels like home already.
But apparently the old lady wants all her brood gathered around one last time, and if I want to see a penny of the loot that is supposedly coming my way, I better clean up and head back to the homeland for a little death-bad groveling. Not my idea of a good time, but I suppose I have had worse jobs that paid far less.