This afternoon I was with a friend who noticed that I was not taking calls to my mobile. Her curiosity was aroused. The next time the phone rang and I ignored it she made a point of asking: 'Aren't you going to answer that?'
'No, it's just my father again.'
She paused for a minute and then, with palpable wistfulness, said: 'My father never calls me.'

It made clear to me the peculiar relationship we have with our parents - peculiar in the sense of individual, particular, specific. I am now nettled by the continuous stream of calls I get every day from dad, each of them having two distinct parts: pretext (such as his need for food, money or medical attention) and purpose (discovering when I am next going to visit). It may not always be so. Although I cannot, at present, imagine feeling abandoned and neglected as a result of not hearing from my father, I can appreciate that there are many people who do.

And who knows, it is possible that when my father finally forgets how to use the phone, and cannot remember any of his family - when everything goes dark - I may look back at this twilight-time of communicativeness with some kind of nostalgia.