The daily paper I read caries a column by the daughter of a college friend. In the attached photo the young woman stands with folded arms looking somewhere between defensive and truculent. When I look back through old photos I find one of her mum standing with arms folded, in much the same attitude, which amuses me, except that....
...... the last seven days have seen a renewal of our anxiety about my grandson whose father is playing very dirty again, dripping poison and horrifying threats into the poor child’s ear. There are many layers to this nightmare, but one is that the boy needs his father to be a good man because his father is a part of him. He walks like his dad and he stands like his dad. How do we convince him that he isn’t his dad - reassure him that he can choose his behaviour and lead a very different life?
The corpse in the cargo.
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