Prison Break: Daddy Legs it!!

EWWWW! Dad's Legs, originally uploaded by Jeff Danger.

3am and all the lights are out. I am sleepily making my way to the bathroom in the dark when the hall light goes on downstairs. From the doorway of the darkened bathroom I can see through to the hallway where Daddy Shortlegs is shuffling his way out of his room. His head jerks and wobbles as he looks up and squints as if to focus, making him like something feral sniffing out a predator (or prey!) but I am in shadow and he can’t see me. He can’t see as far as his own hand to be honest but I stand stock still just in case he senses any movement. “What is he up to?”

He shuffles along to the row of hooks and searches the coats and jackets one by one, constantly muttering under his breath and looking in all the pockets of items belonging to me and Richard as well as his own. Surely he doesn’t need cash so badly he’d rob our pockets – has he lost his cash card again? If I confront him he will get angry or shuffle back to his room, so as silently as possible I move closer to the top of the stairs and look around the banisters. I stand listening to the shuffling of slippers on carpet and the jangling of keys. He now has a number of keys in his hand and he is squinting into the kitchen, looking furtively for any sign of me or Richard. Coast clear, he makes his way to the front door, casting another sly glance upstairs and I have to retreat around the banisters so as to remain out of sight in the dark.

He doesn’t need a key to get out of the front door which he opens slowly and stealthily. It is obvious that he is now officially “sneaking”. With the door only half open, he stands in the draught of the porch, trying key after key until he finds the right one. He checks it once, twice, then removes the key and shuffles back into the hallway and drops the spare keys onto the hall stand. Another cagey glance upstairs and then a final shuffle back to the door with chosen key in hand. He walks out of the house and closes the door.

I race up the stairs to the first floor window and watch him progress slowly towards the lamppost outside our house. There he stands, like an OAP rent-boy clutching the lamppost in a terry towelling dressing gown, socks and slippers – sexy not! A car passes by and I feel like a guilty Mrs Danvers spying on him in his best Lili Marlene pose as he repeats the squinty searching look, his head jerkily covering the scene as if he can’t remember how to move his eyes independently of his neck muscles. Surely he can’t be looking for me or Richard, he could simply shout up the stairs as he usually does. And surely he isn’t trolling for trade! Is he ill – is he waiting for an ambulance or a taxi (or an ice-cream van?)

Is he planning an escape? Is he practicing for a quick (!) getaway wearing slippers so as not to alert us? Are his blue veined legs the equivalent of the tattoo in Prison Break, hiding plans for where to find the fridge and where he left the TV remote control? Thank God it is summer and not icy outside or the only break would be his hip when he careers along the path in his rubber-soled slippers.

I stop guessing as two minutes later he returns to the house, turning the key slowly and slipping the door back into place as quietly as possible, his hand on the lock so the latch slides home silently. I am not sure whether I feel more like a prison warder or a snitch as I wake up Richard and tell him what has happened. Did you give him his tablets? Did you shut his window? Did he eat his dinner? Yes, yes and yes... so I lie in the dark wondering what he wants. Should I spin his room for illegal stashes of Mr Kipling’s cherry bakewells? If he passes you a note or bangs out his plan on the pipes with his tin cup, email me on fathobbit@ntlworld.com