My father is making plans, as always. His whole life is one long schedule. Over the phone I imagine his disgust with my organisational skills when I tell him that I cannot note down this date because I haven't got a diary for 2014 yet. He despairs in me as usual. No wonder, I hear him mutter. No wonder what? Before we get into the usual litany of my failures (which are all due to the fact that I - for reasons he cannot fathom - decided against what in his imagination was the most promising academic career ever) I try to change the subject and start talking about the weather. Clever move. While he goes on about jet streams and Atlantic depressions and the effects on the national agricultural output, I quietly empty the dishwasher letting the phone rest on the kitchen table. For a second I worry that he somehow will notice and in an instant I am 15 again, trying to hide the packet of fags in my back pocket.