I was a kid and I wanted to get to know my blood father. I realise now he was just as manipulative as mum could be. He made ME feel guilty for not calling or visiting more often if I walked past with a friend. When he NEVER picked up the phone even when I had a mobile and only I would answer.
I pretended I like the jogging trousers for him. I stopped wearing them to get mum and David off my back and making a comment when I wore them. I didn't complain when I was bored to tears of Madeira cake. Every week. Same dry cake. I made the coffee and tea and ate the Madeira cake. And my father moaned and groaned about a drip of tea from the tea bags.
I remember making a toastie for myself and I said just as a topic of conversation that I liked mild cheddar and my favourite cheese was edam. And my father screwed up his face and said that those cheeses have no taste, mature cheddar is the best cheese. And I said under my breath: I don't smoke sixty a day, no wonder you have no taste buds. And he just said you always mumble.
He went from the army to that damn arm chair, sitting there with his arms crossed and dozing on and off for hours. His own brothers in arms from his own regiment broke his leg on purpose so I gathered from him. Why did he feel so much fond nostalgia when his own comrades ended his career?