Lucy Mangan: 'Packing for Dad is like watching an exceptionally boring episode of The Krypton Factor. “Tickets? Passport? Headache pills? Heart pills? Emergency bottle of dandelion and burdock? Pac-a-mac?" ' Photograph: Jules Frazier/GettyDad is going on a month-long working holiday in Cape Cod. I know. How some people suffer. The family has assembled to prepare for the journey.
"Are you sure you've got everything, Dad?" my sister asks, as she begins the task of fitting the pile of his possessions on the spare bed into his suitcase. It's like watching an exceptionally slow episode of The Krypton Factor. "Tickets? Passport? Headache pills? Heart pills? Emergency bottle of dandelion and burdock? Pac-a-mac?"
"I've changed to elderflower cordial," he says. "I thought it was about time I embraced my feminine side. It's been a long time since I?embraced anything feminine."
"What's that?" Mum says, as she comes in carrying her grandson, three cups of tea, a can of paint, because she's going to touch up the guest room skirting boards while she's there, and a bottle of sunscreen, which she adds to the pile. It's factor 50 – basically, a cardigan in a bottle. Mangans burn within minutes of being in the sun. It's?because, for the first few hundred generations, we lived in turf huts under Ireland's grey mizzle. "Melanin's for Protestants," my grandma used to say, then push her kids out of the back door in their T-shirts for a taste of what hellfire would feel like if they didn't behave. "We puckered and shrivelled like bacon in a?hot pan," Dad recalls fondly. "Your Uncle Declan took a bite out of?his?own leg once. Well, it hadn't been his?turn for breakfast that morning. Happy?days."
While my sister packs (helped by?her nephew: "Drop! I drop it! No, not have it now"), the rest of us go downstairs to check that Mum is ready for Dad's departure, too. "Now this," Dad says as we enter, "is The Kitchen. It?is where food is prepared and cooked. This is the oven. This is the hob. This – above all – is the microwave."
Mum's interest is piqued. "But where's the food?" she asks.
"Here, in this white thing," Dad says, leading her to the fridge. "In here," he says, opening the top door, "is fresh food. Behold: tomatoes, eggs, ham, mayonnaise, cheese and assorted other comestibles, which can be laid between two pieces of bread in various tasty groupings to form the Lunchtime Sandwich."
"I'm not dirtying a knife for mayonnaise," Mum says.
"Condiments aren't compulsory," Dad says. "After all, I do not want life to become too joyful without me. You might change the locks again."
"Will I have to slice those tomato things?" Mum asks. "And cheese?"
"Yes."
"I'll probably just have coffee." "For your evening meals," Dad says, opening the bottom door, "I have filled this – the 'freezer' – with portions of home-cooked bolognese sauce, fish pie, shepherd's pie and lasagne, to which you will need only to add pasta or peas to create a delicious and nutritious dinner."
"I'll probably just have wine."
"As you wish, light of my life."
My sister comes downstairs, nephew in one hand, suitcase in the other. "All done," she says. "Except for the padlock. What combination do you want this time, Dad? Tom Finney's birthday? Alma Cogan's vital statistics? Or the first six Mersenne primes?"
He decides on Tom Finney. He puts on his coat and sits on his suitcase in?the porch. He has to leave in eight hours and doesn't like to be rushed.
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