At least that’s what it feels like. My good mood is slightly marred, though, when I walk into the kitchen and see Dad sitting at the table finishing his toast and marmalade. I find it difficult to look him in the eye when I remember what he said about me last night. ‘And how’s my little Princess, this morning?’ he asks in a bright voice, which sounds forced, now I know his true feelings. ‘Oh, just my usual, whiney self,’ I say sweetly, as I sit down. I really can’t help myself. I notice him exchanging a look with Mum over my head. ‘I’d better be off, then,’ he says, pushing back his chair and standing up. An avalanche of toast crumbs fall to the floor. I can hear them crunching underfoot as he goes over to Mum and gives her a kiss. ‘Someone has to keep this family in the style to which it’s become accustomed,’ he laughs. If that’s a joke it’s not a very good one, in the present circumstances. Mum laughs, because she always laughs at Dad’s jokes, but I don’t think she sounds very amused.
