“Look at me, Daddy. I’m a zombie. I’ve got red eyes like you when you work at night.”
Then I stop my rant and think, ah, yeah, I get it, you cheeky monster.
Okay, yes, it’s time for a holiday. Just let me finish writing this story. It’s about zombies. You’ll dig it, really. It’s about a man who wants to quit but can’t, but not because he’s a workaholic… well, like me sometimes, but because, well… You’ll have to read the story to find out. You can read it when it’s done and when we’re on holiday. Soon, my dear, I swear. Just give me a couple of days to wrap it up and edit it and then sell it somehow because we don’t want the repo man coming round to our house, do we?
“What’s a zombie, anyway?”
“Oh, well. It’s a well… why, let me think, ah, yeah, well… Why don’t you go and ask your mother?”