Hands that do dishes can be soft as your brain

No news yet, or should I say no weather report, as he seems to remain dry although not unclouded in the kitchen at Birmingham (you know he only went to visit because it has ham in the name - come to think of it he used to live in Chippenham). They are as surprised as we are at how low-brow his tastes have become. Milton and Kipling are now bleach and apple pies rather than literature. He has stopped taking a newspaper or doing the crossword, given up on teaching himself ancient Greek or reading science but sits morosely watching the FX channel non-stop with the volume know cranked up to ASBO.

I have been watching a programme on senile hoarding. Turns out not be a documentary on poorly run care homes with a pack ‘em high, sell ‘em short approach to older people but a look at unwholesome neighbours with Diogenes syndrome. Daddy tends to hoard ham and mince pies (even out of season) as if life is a perpetual Boxing Day. He is such a label queen – as long as the label says Mr Kipling or Sara Lee. He has long since given up on cooking and buys prepared sandwiches and salads although he still has a penchant for meat and will use pork pie as a garnish or sprinkle ham and/or cooked chicken on anything within range, even the cat.

He gets a little fixated. At one time it was cleaning – I would come home to find him hoovering dust off the elements at the back of the fridge or using a knife blade to scrape through the shine that was once the surface of the cooker. And cooking – even on the hottest day of the year you would be met with a full roast dinner – beef with hammy cabbage or lamb with bacon-strewn cauliflower. Then pudding... a heart attack masquerading as half a Sara Lee lemon meringue pie unsuccessfully crammed into a dessert bowl. When stopped, due to my impending diabetes and exploding arteries he took to feeding the cat a freshly cooked chicken purchased daily at Tesco and cut into the smallest pieces imaginable. This process took half his morning and all our patience as he hogged the kitchen (no ham pun intended – am I a closet hamosexual?).

The cat, released from her living hell of constant food (she had begun to look like a fur clad pouffe) is now slim again whilst I still look like the lovechild of Vanessa Feltz and Peter Wyngarde.

His need to tape every episode of Stargate and re-edit to remove commercial breaks has left us with a bedroom cupboard full of tapes labelled version 3, version 4 complete, version 5 no ads… Since his move downstairs he has lost all interest in them. He is now as fixated by washing up as Nanette Newman and unfortunately he continues to wash towels until they are as thin as our endurance. The overuse of the fan heater is accompanied by the constantly tumbling drier and Cardiff may soon be experiencing a brown-out as the national grid tries to cope with his demands. We may have to call in a wattage negotiator – ‘back away from the sink, that's it… now calmly put the mop down and come out with your hands dry…’