I’m about to set up home with my Dad to become his primary carer. Although it’s sad that Dad is near the end of his days with us, we get on well – for the most part – and I’m looking forward to being with him.

A month ago I didn’t really want to. I’ve done this before. With my Mother and it was as natural to me as breathing. But with a Father of a certain generation it’s been more complex. For one thing, although he’s lost weight, He’s heavier and less graceful than Mum. Helping her move could be like choreography. (And sometimes a nightmare tbf)

And we won’t go into the bathroom stuff, you’ll be pleased to hear – because Dad won’t let me anyway. For which I bless him.

Things have moved on in a month and it feels right. And today as I’m packing what I thought would be a small bag and realise now might need to be bigger, Its just registered that if I ran out of anything whilst being with mum, I’d just wear her clothes. And still do in some brilliant vintage moments.

The only time I’ve worn anything of Dad’s is illegally trying on his Captain’s cap (I was 43) or when I was catastrophically car sick as a kid and that’s all the clothes there were.

So now I’ve got to pack properly because I’m not sure the neighbours will get it if they pop in and I’m in oversized chinos and a Viyella check …

I really hate packing. Which is probably why I’m writing this.