I arrived with twelve litres of cranberry juice, a desperate and rearguard attempt to soften his cancerous pancreas. Oh god, how we staggered last night. His bloated legs. The stains on his jumper. How we laughed, as he clutched at my greying hair. And was there a moment, as we lunged toward the bathroom that we were not, in fact, taking him for a hopeless shit but returned, in the push and pull of our bodies, to forty years earlier, wrestling on the carpet, both of us the winner, always. I saw his claw hand open, his eyes waiting to haul me to the floor. Finally, on the can, he spoke of the district nurse. He had no grievances but, equally, he had no lewd comment to make either and this, beyond all the obvious, concerned me considerably. It's over forty years since I saw my father defecate and yet, as I stood at the bathroom door, it felt almost natural and it was only later, studying the Zichy print, that the memory came of myself aged three, on the toilet, chatting away to my father as he waited at the door, ready to wipe me. I took a quarter pipe and decided to spend the weekend at his house, perhaps get a better picture of all his needs and take, too, the only gift he can give, that of retrieval.