I kick lazily at the dead leaves and wait for them to file past and offer one last condolence before drifting back to unchanged lives.

The next day: Ring ring. Dad picks up.

We’re watching that fat nanny film.
Nanny McPhee?
That’s the one. Who’s the girl in it?
Emma Thompson.
That’s right. Don’t normally like her. She’s a bit affected. It’s got that man in it, what’s his name?
I don’t know Mum.
You know, Clive Owen, no not him, the other one.
Are there only two men in the world?
Don’t be facetious Alan. If you‘re not going to help, I’ll hang up.
Okay Mum bye.
Bye dear.


The house lists in near silence. Dad’s gaze drifts south.

Ring Ring.

Colin Firth.
Excuse me.
Colin Firth, the man in the Nanny film.
Oh, right.
He’s very good. Very charming. I hear he’s very nice off camera too.
It’s important, I think. Don’t you agree? That Hugh Grant. I don’t like him. Not a nice man. I read a thing in the Mail about how he treats people.

It goes on like this forever. Dad can’t hang up, lets himself drown in the comfort of mindless banality.

This is a version of a scene from The Last of Logan. In that, the scene had to be chopped down to about half this length for space and word-count purposes, but I like it so thought I’d put it up.