I know that he isn’t him. He (the real he) is Nurse Ratched.
She’d been sat between us at dinner and had this sort of flaky skin, most of which stayed on the seat when she got up.
‘You’ll sell that idea better to Gemma Collins than you will Julia Roberts,’ he said. Then went silent again.
Thinking about it all again now, it seems far more likely that I am older than I am.
This notion has gained such traction with me that I am starting to think that my father may not have been that bad after all; persuading myself to look at him and his sort like exhibits in a museum from whom I have evolved.