Marcel

At a leaving do, I ask the cheerful-looking ex-colleague of a friend outright.  She doesn't have one but offers me her mum or dad's.  I choose her dad's and ask whether he is any good at mime.  'I don't think so', she says, 'but I've got a vision of him dancing down the length of our living room'.  She goes on to describe how her father used to dance up and down to classical music, attempting the splits in mid-air.  'He used to wear an old tracksuit', she tells me.  She is eating a Scotch egg.  I ask if he'll do it for her next time she visits.  'Not unless he wants to end up in hospital', she replies.