‘It’s not bloody right,’ Dad says angrily into his pork chops, sausage, bacon, leeks, mash and cauliflower cheese, ‘they’re only little old boys. They can’t help it if they’re shirt-lifters, bless them.’ He can do this, our dad. He can come out with statements so fantastically wrong and fantastically right in the space of one sentence that all I can do is prepare the next forkful of sausage, bacon and cauliflower. ‘Not bloody right at all,’ he repeats.
