My Dad spends the majority of his time in his armchair. The armchair is about 10 inches from a huge double radiator which pumps out enough heat to warm an airport. The chair faces the TV corner. The new, larger screened television blares.
My dad can only see shapes now. He only leaves the armchair to eat at the kitchen table, take his tablets, go to the toilet, or go to bed.
‘Manchester’s full of worn out Paddys like your Dad’, says my mother.
’Loads of them - sat in chairs like that. Them that are still alive, that is. They came over here from the back of beyond and went mad with the drinking and the women.’
My youngest gravitates towards my Dad, stuck in his chair, worn out. I think she knows that her chances are probably few to jump on his knee. He tickles her with his big sausage fingers.
Today, my nephew stopped texting briefly to take a picture of the tickling on his phone. I followed suit and took a few pictures too.
‘It’s the new one.’ I said, showing my nephew my phone. ‘The camera has more megapixels.’