My Dad’s home from home for some years and the subject of too many, often violent confrontations between him and Mam. In later years I played pool with him there or stood in the tiny lobby sucking on cool pints, chewing the fat, being introduced to boozing chums and characters and oddballs in a Joycean narrative of juxtaposed, amiably bizarre conversations. I egged him on one time to play Yoko Ono’s “Open Your Box” on the jukebox. Cries of “Who the fuck put this on?” immediately ensued. My Dad’s embarrassment in his attempt to be hip lasted a wailing and screaming four minutes, “You bastard”, he said. I grinned. After arguing with a racist about a crisis in Uganda[we came off badly], we watched the floods in Cardiff on TV. Lots of sewage water, lots of damage. “Isn’t that where you live?”, he asked. It was.