For the past few months he has been living in his ex-wife's little terraced house in a different part of the city - about four miles away. It's a two-bedroomed house and their youngest son - Philip - usually sleeps in one of those bedrooms. Bizarrely, Bert and Pat sleep in the double bedroom - top to tail. They separated thirty years ago.
All three of them were glad to see me. I brought Bert a birthday card I had made myself. It included the top picture I took of him a few years ago - before he broke his hip and before dementia began to creep into his brain like a white rot fungus. I also gave him two cans of Bacardi and Coca Cola which was often his tipple of choice after a hearty pub session in "The Banner Cross Hotel". In addition, I gave Pat a bunch of flowers I had just picked up from a nearby supermarket.
It was snug and warm in the little house but quite spartan too with few pictures or adornments - just some framed family photos. And it was quite untidy and grubby with stuff piled up here and there. This was not a home to accommodate visitors or incidentally show off one's worldly wealth or tastes in decor. In the corner, a forty two inch television screen resided like an idol to be worshipped. Fortunately, the volume had been turned right down.
I wish I could have videoed or tape recorded the visit. It would have made a great basis for an existential TV drama.
At one point, I was trying to participate in three different but simultaneous conversations that seemed to have no connection with each other. Pat was talking about how much she despises Donald Trump and her vaginal bleed. Bert was talking about climate change as some Antarctic imagery had appeared on the silent TV screen. Philip was talking about yellow label bargains he had picked up in supermarkets and a band called The Cardiacs that I had never heard of.
Perhaps I had unwittingly entered a miniature asylum. Maybe I would get sucked into it and never leave but after ninety minutes and with some tactical difficulty I managed to extricate myself.
At one point, as Pat was making me a cup of coffee in the kitchen, I said to Bert, "How old are you tomorrow?"
"Eighty. Seventy something. Ninety - what's it?... November 24th 1936. Pat! Pat! How old am I tomorrow?"
"You're eighty nine Bert! Eighty nine!"
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