I opened my eyes half-expecting to see the naked twigs of the birch white-frosted. No such luck, only thing different this morning was J not flinging herself starshape across my double bed, and my father doing manic hoovering in his underwear to Jimmi Hendrix. He has been drastically weakened by a bout of man flu; the empty space on the shelf at the supermarket where the peppercorns should be reduces him almost to tears.
