Father In Law is in good form – at the moment he’s in Sydney at the Formula 1 racing. Prior to harvesting his stem cells, he underwent a three-day dose of savage chemo. He subsequently lost his hair, which was a bit of a shock; it is easy to forget how sick he is.
He might have retained some, except that he liked to demonstrate his accelerating hair loss to visitors by ripping it out at the roots:
“Aw yeh, all falling out – look! Make a jumper out of that.”
He has a ruptured disk in his lower back, but at one stage when his drug regime made him impervious to pain, he would high-kick around the kitchen.
“Haven’t been able to do this for years!”
“You know, Brian,” I said one morning, “just because you CAN – mind the light – doesn’t necessarily mean you SHOULD.”
“Think I can touch my forehead! Ungh!”
The other day he went for a routine heart and lung check. With both apparently in spanking condition, he doubled the smoking and drinking and tortures Rosina: “I’m in great shape! You should have the old bellows checked out – might have to give up the fags, old girl.”
