THAR FOR THERE

Daughter and me visited my Dad a few days this week. His wife is not my mother.
One thing you can’t do at their place is feel at home.
‘I’m just going to make a cup of tea,’ I said, getting up from the chair I’d sat in to watch the football on Wednesday evening.
‘No,’ she said from the other side of a lampshade to the right of me, ‘I’ll do it.'
I sat back down as she got up with a sigh.
Eleven-thirty she said, ‘I’m going to bed.’
She turned the television off and the lights as she left for upstairs. We, me, Daughter, Dad, followed her out and I didn’t get to say, ‘Goodnight.’
The house is spotless. Light coloured furniture and decor emphasing the cleanliness.
The first night there, I dreamt of shit smeared all over the room I stood in and wonderered what it all meant.
‘I won’t come to the station to see you off,’ she said. ‘I’ve got housework to do.’
Daughter said on the train, 'She's so posh. She said, “Thar,” for “There.”’