My mother spotted me immediately. I'm difficult to miss: almost six foot tall, large build, limp hair streaked with various strands of colour. As always, she was impeccably dressed, this time in flawless emerald and jet. She gave a little gasp of recognition, waved ecstatically, then hurried over in order to enfold her 'baby' in an embarrassing embrace. Sixty-seven years of age with a neat figure, few wrinkles and Latin-dark hair, she has spawned three mousy-haired, spotty-skinned, weight-battling daughters.

'Where's Dad?'

'He haf trouble park de car,' she shouted up at me. 'Dey are cruel dese people, dey take awey olla de parking meeter. He must park far, far, faaar...' She gestured flamboyantly to make her point clear '...and not for small money, no! Why! when we stay for maybe half hour?'

'Do you know where he's parked?'

'Ma no! He no park, he go round, round.'

'You wait outside then, catch him as he goes past, I'll get my bag.'

But no, she must come with me, explaining for the thousandth time her 'ruined' muscles which will not allow her to help me. The fact that the suitcase is on wheels, I didn't bother to mention.

Outside, we soon spotted Father, or rather his car gliding smooth and silvery into a just vacanted loading zone. I strode back to Mum, took hold of my luggage and heaved it across the road - he hates to be kept waiting. The boot lid released itself and I deposited the caseand slipped meekly into place beside Dad. He looked a smaller man now; quite hunched, with silvery hair and a patrician nose that supported the Roman inheritance he lay claim to. His hands were hidden in white cotton gloves, but there was still power in his eyes for I could feel their fierceness, though it was directed elsewhere. Careless drivers received laser glares; not me.

Arriving at the foot of the driveway, I leapt out of the car and sprinted up, eager to demonstrate that though fat, I am not sluggish. The door rolled up with a grumble and I turned and grinned, but had to step aside immediately, for the fast approaching vehicle refused to pause for dawdlers. The boot lid yawned. Knowing better than to wait, I extracted my luggage and hauled it up the back stairs into the kitchen.

My mother, having beaten me to the kitchen had proceeded immediately with her self-imposed martyrdom. Triumphantly, she pulled out one of her specialities, a double chocolate cheesecake.

'Mum, I asked you not to!'

'A leettle vill not hurt.'

'You're always telling me I'm too fat.' She shrugged; I rolled my eyes. The next ten minutes was spent rejecting offer after offer of food as Mum fussed, preparing dinner. The fridge was literally groaning with delicacies. Some people enrich their lives with hobbies once their children leave, my mother pickles and stews and jams and preserves, preparing for guilt induced visits.

Irritated, I prowled about. Wherever I looked, I found something which made me wince. What would a buyer do if faced with the challenge of buying this home, I wondered? Would they strip the garish wall paper first or carpet the riotous tiles? Or would they simply walk away trying to control their amusement? I was cynically examining my sister's 'Grandpa loves me' framed attempt to woo Father's affection, when the man himself entered and dinner was immediately served.

A beautifully cooked meal can never compensate for cheerless company. When finished, my Father pushed his plate away and sat sniffing loudly, while I entered into a desperately inane conversation with Mum. At one point he interrupted, setting the record straight, but lapsed again into silence when I seized too eagerly on this show of interest. Shortly afterwards, he left.

When he'd safely shuffled away upstairs, Mum leaned forward conspiratorially. 'He will haf his showa, now,' she stage whispered. 'Three hours...' she raised three fingers, 'three hours he will be in that showa.'

'What does he DO in there for three hours?'

'How I know?'

'Haven't you checked on him?'

'You crazy?'

'Have you tried asking him what he does?'

'Madonna!' She rolled her eyes to heaven calling on the Virgin to witness my stupidity.

'You told me he'd been to see the doctor.'

'Yisss! But do you tink he would tell the trut'?' She pinched her fingers together in an attempt to grasp the truth herself. 'No, no. He lie. Dey give him crem and he rub, rub, rub but iz too (she mimes greasiness) so he buy glove, how you say? disposabull. Now he changa de glove twenty time a day. Ma, he no disposa! No! I have to wash!' I could see them as she spoke, those endless rows of gloves hanging on the washing line like sliced away udders. They would make an appropriate subject for a Dali painting. 'Someone must convint him he has the problem,' my mother informed me, raising dark eyebrows expressively, 'Someone he vill listen to.'

That night I read at a furious pace till four in the morning, exhausting my mind and keeping thoughts at bay. The next day I rose only when a stainless steel clunking assured me Mum had descended to do battle with the daily wash load. Descending the carpeted steps, I stumbled into Dad's 'kitchen' slippers sending one spinning across the tiles. Shit! What sane man exchanges footwear four times before gaining his bedroom? Who but a madman changes socks every few hours and wears layers of underwear progressively stripped as the day proceeds?

I pondered the situation while I mouthed a piece of toast. There was no way my Father was going to listen to me. He'd never listened to me. When very young, he'd silenced me with beatings, later with sermons; now his weapon was silence. Had I ever listened to him? Not really. Not when it had counted, anyway.

A loud sniff from behind announced my Father's pyjamaed presence. Warily, we eyed each other as he paused in the doorway as if waiting to be invited. I slipped from the stool and began nervously to prepare a pot of tea, all the while chiding myself for my weakness. Now was the time to speak. I knew it. Yet how should I speak to this man to whom I had never opened my heart?

Carefully, I placed his cup in the saucer, ensuring I did not slop the brew. It would not do to activate his scorn. I remained standing, my hands resting on the breakfast bar, my face hidden by overhanging cupboards. Somehow, Mrs. Harrison rose like a swimmer from greenish depths. I recalled the arguments with my Father over falling fences and trailing vegetation. I recalled her whistling while she watered the chrysanthemums, an attempt to stifle the grief and shame of her son's imprisonment. I recalled her manish legs and childish pigtail. But most of all, I remembered what she brought me one day.

She had learned of my interest in nature and coming across a chrysalis in her garden, had hurried over immediately with her find. 'You see,' she had pointed out breathlessly, 'the poor thing didn't have the energy to force it's way out. It got trapped half way and suffocated.' I took the offering, surprised by her eagerness and though it nauseated me, placed it on my dresser. Of course, Mum soon discovered it and threw the 'feelthy' insect away.

Funny how the mind works. Immersed in my thoughts, I had forgotten Father. I was brought back by a stealthy touch. For a moment I remained daydream blind, then my eyes re-focussed. Beside my own plump hand lay another with flesh rubbed raw as bacon. One finger lay slightly outstretched as if it may have moved a moment ago. Nothing was said, nothing further happened but as I busied myself with the cutlery in the sink, something inside me stirred.