"Chris", says Carl, between bites of a Peakfreens shortbread cookie, "don't keep reading if you're tired. This is really interesting but it's already past ten and I think we're all ready for bed if not for the grave by now."
"Tomorrow's another day", says Francois. "Can we help with the clean up?"
"I can do it. You guys go up to bed. But thanks."
"I am really looking forward to meeting them both tomorrow, especially this Karen Wilson", says Carl.
There isn't really much to clean up, and even though tired, it is rather rejuvenating washing the few dessert dishes and teacups, beautiful English bone china that hasn't moved from the dining room cabinet probably in more than a decade. Then I pause in the bathroom for quick ablutions before climbing into my father's bed. The room is so nice and dark and just now I am sensing my father's presence, as though he is lying beside me, like a benevolent old Walrus on top of the bed, much as I remember him when I was just four years old, and slept with him in this very same bed for six months after my mother died in that fiery car crash. How could I have forgotten. And now I am waiting for sleep...
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