Every postcard tells a story

Amid all the mayhem, some good news. A robin has come to nest in my back yard, going in and out of the ivy. Dawn is now lodging with me, as you know, and we both saw it the other morning and remarked as one that a robin in such circs means that a relative is trying to make contact, and I said, oh god, no. I think it’s my Dad, said Dawn, and I said the same, because it would be just like him, and she said, well, it can’t be your Dad as well! And I said that there were two robins, only we couldn’t see the other one, and perhaps it was another male and our fathers were having a gay affair in the afterlife, and she said, honestly, I think that’s unlikely. Or it was a female, as per, I said, and her Dad had transitioned. And she said, why is it my Dad that’s transitioned? It could be my Mum, she said. She’s almost dead. And I said, no, my Dad never fancied your Mum. It was your Mum fancied my Dad. Plus if she’s alive as a human she could still get here on the utterly extortionate Hoppa, in theory. Whereas your Dad is already a bird, so how much of a leap can gender reassignment be? I went to Gilding’s on Monday and have put “Untitled #1” on the side. You owe me £161 after taxes/taxis plus £66 for the train (cheapest ticket to Market Harborough). Misery and extortion.