“Are you coming over tomorrow Splods”, my Dad asks me during our usual evening telephone call.

“Yes Dad yes”, I reply. I am about to say that he knows this, as its Thursday and I always come over on a Thursday, but before I can get beyond know, he has started speaking again, “It’s just I rather hoped you might go to Sainsbury’s for me ……. I have a list you see…”, and I hear the strain in his voice as he moves forwards in his chair, “hang on” , he continues, “just let me…” and there is a scuffle. The strain of moving is vocalised as he pushes himself up and up , out of the chair.

 I am wondering where the phone is at this point, as he needs two hands to accomplish what is now a physically demanding manoeuvre.I feel as if I have fallen, the trajectory of his voice is distant. I can just about hear him saying something

“….”

Its muffled and then

“Oh shit”, his voice rises,” I’ve dropped the phone”

I am on the floor. OK I say, quietly.

                                To myself.

He shouts, “BLOODY HELL FIRE”. The words reached me back then and still do now and I distract myself momentarily.

I look at the time – I am on one of my bedtime schedules to establish a better sleep routine, since I have got into a bad one, trying to develop more of a life beyond work and the kids. Which has just made me tired.

So, it’s back to work and kids.

“HANG ON SPLODS”, I hear my dad shout and land back in his chair “Oooaaarrffff”.

“Right now sorry about that “, he says,” Right this list I have you see,  I was wondering, hang on” he continues to fuff about.

“Ok “, I say patiently.

“Are you ready?”, he asks.

“Yes”, I smile as I reply (have been for a while). He starts to reel off the contents of a list compiled using ‘My Friends’ book. Dad refers to anyone who I know, as my friend. This knowing* can be as loose as having bought their book, so Dale Pinnock is apparently my friend.

“Your friend tells me I should be eating shiitake mushrooms”, he states.

“Oh right”, I smile as I jot down his requirements.

“He says they are good for me so I will have some of these…….

…….and lentils, red ones, turmeric, ginger. Peppers, garlic………

………Fruit- citrus please…and green beans. Yogerty yogerts please……

……..The Big Three” (Milk, bread, wine)……….

No meat though I am being a vegetarian for lent remember ?”, he asks.

“Yes Dad I remember”, I reply and remind him I have smallest in tow as its half term.

to which he sighs’ ,”Oh I was rather hoping you could get all these other things done…”.

He sounds dejected and I feel a bit annoyed but say. “it’s alright Dad don’t worry, it might take longer but I am sure I can manage”. Silence.

“So what is there to do ?”, I ask brightly

“What ?” he says

“What do you want me to do?”I ask again smiling

“When?”

(I inhale)

“Tomorrow dad, you said you had a list?”

“Oh yes well …..Where is it (shuffling and scrunching of paper) , yes I wondered whether you could pop to the Butchers you see, I would like bacon bits , you know I am not convinced that use by dates at supermarkets are accurate-they say you have to eat it in three days! The very reason we used to get bacon was that you could keep it for some time you know and during the war you needed to. Bacon from the butcher well it seems much, well better to me……….”

“The butcher Dad?”

“Yes “he replies

“But you are a vegetarian for lent?” I remind him

“Oh I know that but I need a little bit of meat don’t I ?” he muses.

“To be a vegetarian.” I wonder.

“Yyyyyeees. Well you hear about these vegetarians that eat fish so I am going to be one of those but with bacon. Do you think that’s ok?”, he asks me sincerely.

“I am sure its fine Dad”.

“Brilliant, see you tomorrow then Splods”.

(*NB: when I was a teenager my friends would often be in the vicinity of Friday night moments of ASB on the high street. Usual stuff, fights, shouting occasional plant throwing. This still goes on, although my friends are no longer responsible- in reality -In dads world they are implicated in every act going.

“Your friends have been at it again look “,– he holds up the paper which reads – YOBS Riot in the high street

“Not my mates dad”.

“Are you sure?”

“Fairly sure, it says they are teenagers I think.My mates are 45 mainly.”  I reply having had this conversation many times and no longer needing to read the article to know what it says.

“Yes well. It could be your friends”, he smarts.

 “Yes but its not. Because I don’t know any teenagers anymore. At least not as friends”

“So you say”, he replies his eyes not leaving the paper.

Eldest and I drove down the high street last weekend and as we pass the benches at the bottom of the town ,(where we used to sit and drink on a Friday) we notice a group of 11 or 12-year-olds have congregated. There is a bit of jumping and mucking about going on. Eldest leans across to me – look out Mum there are your mates.

I raise my hand as we pass them).