If ever there was a time that the spirit of my father would manifest itself, it would be right now, as I hover nervously in the doorway to my living room where there is a man painting my ceiling.
The man’s name is Matt and he is a very nice man. My dad would probably like him. However, the reason I can imagine his frowning ghost at my shoulder is that it is Matt, and not me, who is painting my ceiling.
I can imagine his look now, part bemused, part amused, part disappointed. Why, he would wonder, unless you are in traction or have had to undergo emergency amputation of all your limbs, would you not paint your own ceiling?
Indeed, it’s something that doesn’t sit happily with me, hence the