He could have been reduced to a pair of darting eyes. Or jittery hands smoothing down a wispy comb-over, shielding the raw, obscene bald patch. My dad's life was a Bayeux tapestry timeline of skirmishes with eczema and the anger and the paintings and the anger and the jazz and the anger and the skiing and the anger and the half finished house and the anger and then the sheer release of the thrice weekly squash matches at the local council gym where he was known as a cheat and a shouty nutcase.

My English dad probably wouldn't have found an English woman who'd have put up with him. Luckily he found my Filipina mother to whom his eccentricity did not translate.

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