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.’
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