It is 7.o’clock and dad insists on one of us eating his leftover bit of cornbeef sandwich. He always wants to share his scraps. I could just say Ok and then throw it away but the perverse side of me has to tell him that we don’t want it. I suppose it is the thrift from the war years coming out but he never offered us food over and above what was on our plates when we were young.
I refuse the leftovers and watch as he adjusts the chairs, picks up the sauces and wanders aimlessy around with them until I direct him to a cupboard. Then he goes round locking and testing the doors before standing behind me waiting for me to go into the sitting room to sit down, when I do that he follows. M. disappears upstairs, he can’t bear the group TV watching session. I stay with dad as long as I can bear it.
He sniffs, farts, wipes his nose and is perfectly content. I unlock all the doors so the dog can go out.