After their shared bath my nieces are presented to me for kissing. Rosie thanks me for having kept a secret. When Ann returns from their bedroom my father clears his throat.

'Cracker kids,' he says. 'Not like you little sods were.'

Ann thinks this predictable.

'Yes. Well, there's no one around any longer to tell us what you were like at their age.'

'Much like them I would imagine,' my father says brightly. 'A drink, Mother?'

'A wine-cooler I think. And don't be so conceited, Alan. Your mother didn't think that much of you, even when you were grown-up.'

*