And it is neat, just like him. But it’s like he’s piled all his stuff around the sides of the room. Everything’s arranged around a small rug in the centre of the floor. Record player. Stacks of albums. A couple of dumb-bells (new). A pile of paperbacks. Two chairs that look like they belong in a pub. A portable TV in the corner.

‘Well,’ he says, looking round. ‘It’s coming on. Tea?’ And he disappears into the kitchen.

I hear the tap choking, the water gushing out, Dad saying ‘shit’.

There’s a photo of me, aged about six, in a frilly frame on top of the portable TV. I’m wearing a green zip-up cardigan and wellies, and I’m grinning. Dad bought me the wellies. Mum asked him why he bothered. ‘It’s not like we go anywhere there’s mud,’ she said. ‘Sensible people stick to the pavement.’ But I loved jumping in puddles, splashing dirt up my cream tights. I’d pick it off later, leaving balls of fluffy mud on my bedroom carpet.

‘You can take your coat off.’ Dad turns in a circle on the rug, looking for somewhere to put the mugs down.

It’s too cold in here to take anything off, but I unbutton. Dad watches me. ‘That’s new,’ he says. ‘It’s nice.’

‘Simon bought it.’

Dad nods quickly then looks away. He gestures towards a chair, spills a bit of tea, rubs it into the rug with his toe.

I throw the coat into a corner.

We sit on the pub-like chairs. Dad hands me my tea and puts his down on the floor. Then he presses his palm to my forehead. ‘You’re hot,’ he says. ‘I’ll get some aspirin.’ He’s up and out into the kitchen again. I hear him rummaging in drawers, opening cupboards. ‘There’s some here somewhere,’ he calls. ‘Just a matter of finding the buggers.’

After a minute, Dad comes back. ‘Can’t find them. Sorry.’ He shows me his empty palms. ‘Useless.’

I smile and my lip splits again.

Dad stands there for a bit longer, empty hands hanging at his sides. ‘Sorry,’ he says.

I sniff and swallow.

‘I have got tissues.’ And he’s off. Cupboards and drawers opening, doors banging.

He hands me a battered box. ‘Mansize,’ he announces.

I take one and blow.

He puts a palm on my forehead again. This time he presses so hard that my head touches the wall behind.

‘Do you want to lie down?’

‘No.’

Dad nods at my coat on the floor. ‘It’s nice, that. Must have set him back a bit.’

There’s a silence while Dad chews his bottom lip and twists his watch round on his wrist. He’s lost weight.

‘Do you get on, then? With him?’

‘He’s a dickhead.’