I’m off to London for the day and Rich is getting ready for the tedious drive to drop him off at the funeral just outside Birmingham. It’s amazing how far old people will travel for a sniff of cooked ham.
Daddy Shortlegs will sleep all the way. Although this doesn’t provide any company for Rich, it is less irritating than his company which usually consists of harrumphing along to the Telegraph.
Of course, he isn’t ready – the family work on a different timescale to others. A ten o’clock start usually means leaving the house just before any hope of lunch. Rich goes to his bedroom to get the suitcase but he hasn’t packed. He’ll be away for about a fortnight while the new kitchen is installed but he has only a towel or two and his funeral suit (which he is now wearing in its entirety rather than the half-and-half arrangement of shirt & tie, socks & shoes and forgetfulness & neglect we were exposed to yesterday). Rich helps by bundling in clothes piled around the room – the suitcase has been in the middle of the room for a week, so we have no idea why there is so little in it. The irony is that Daddy also has little idea as to why it is empty – perhaps his clothes have gone the way of his marbles – away with the fairies (don’t start making up your own jokes at this point).
It is getting late by the time we find his lost bank cards (on the mantelpiece) and Rich checks all the electrical gadgets are turned off. A fan heater has been on continuously since October despite it being the hottest April on record. As he finally gets into the car, struggling with the wriggling python of technology that is a seatbelt, he begins muttering but Rich puts his foot down and drives off ignoring the mumbling by turning his iPod up a notch. Oblivious to all, Rich leaves the house unattended and doesn’t hear the question… ‘Did I pull the front door shut?’
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