P. D. Clifton

Our twelve-year-old daughter Annie* is singing the words to Happy Xmas (War Is Over), in the kitchen. I join in, in a plummy (figgy?) baritone. ‘So this is Christmas. And what have you done? Another year over. And a new one just begun,’ I boom. ‘Do you know this song?’ asks Annie. ‘A VERY MERRY…

Lizzie tells me about a text she’s sent to some of her local friends. She’s arranged to meet them for breakfast the week after next (when she’s finished isolating from Covid, hopefully)… and she was worried, yesterday, about whether to tell them she had cancer or not. She has already mentioned the Covid bit, at…

‘Fuck’ says Lizzie and ‘Fuck’ I say too, the morning we discover that, on top of having grade three ovarian cancer, Lizzie now has Covid. The two ‘Cs’. ‘You couldn’t make this up, I should write it down,’ I say. ‘Absolutely. This is shit!’ says Lizzie. She chuckles bleakly and croakily, through her sore throat.…