All that's left . . .

While my sister was at church I walked along to see Dad. He's in a lovely home, it would be hard to imagine a better one. He didn't know me, he was pretty sure I was one of his four daughters, but didn't know which, occasionally I think he thought I was my mother and he asked me if I'd brought any of the children with me - I don't have any. He held my hand and told me it was lovely to see me again after so long. He is happy and content, he says he's surrounded by friends, lovely people who can't do enough for him.

We had a lovely time just sitting and talking a little. He remembered odd things from years ago, family holidays in the caravan, but nothing recent. He did remember Ollie ("a big hairy dog!") and my pony. He is very vague and confused but not in pain. My sisters and my mother visit him regularly and he is very well looked after but it is still sad to see him in a home.

Back at my parents' house just about all that is left in Dad's workshop is this old vice. I've known it all my life, it has been in every garage, shed, workshop of each house we lived in as children and Dad was always out there, making and mending things. Very poignant seeing the shed so empty . . .