Mum and Dad are both in the kitchen. Dad’s sitting at the table, working his way through a mountain of mail, mostly junk, filing it into designated piles: to pay, to retain, to read later and to bin. Mum has her head inside the larder, a notepad and pen in hand, making a shopping list.
Turning and seeing me, she says, “I was about to call you. We ran down the food store before we went on holiday. I’m going to Morrisons to stock up. I wanted to ask if there’s anything you’d like me to buy. If you’ve nothing better to do, you might want to join me, then you can choose the stuff you like for yourself.”
I realise I don’t have anything at all I need to do, except maybe to phone Margaret. There’s no point in me moping around at home. I need to be at work, to have something practical to occupy
