Dancing Over the Hill: The new feel good comedy from the author of The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins

each neatly labelled and in its place.

      When we were little, he’d read bedtime stories to Mike and me and did all the voices of the different characters. He was always a great entertainer and could sing too. Bath times were occasions to look forward to when we had to pretend we were in a soap commercial and be on our very best behaviour. He did magic tricks, pretended to swallow toothbrushes, made dolly mixtures appear from the light fittings, traditions he continued with my two boys when they were young. He made life fun, with Friday night declared fizz and crisp night, something Matt and I carried on for many years, when one of us would arrive home with a bottle of bubbly and nibbles for us and lemonade and crisps for the boys. Dad was always in charge of the drinks. On the 24th of December, he’d set off on his bike to buy crème de menthe, Advocaat or Babycham for visitors, most of which stood untouched throughout the season, but seeing those bottles in the back room was part of our Christmas. Dad played piano, sang in the choir, was part of the local tennis club, until his knees let him down and partners aged alongside him or died off and suddenly he didn’t feel it was his place.

      He’d kept up exercises, though, going through an army routine every morning, with his constant companion Brandy the Labrador sitting at the door watching with interest. And now Mum had gone, Brandy too, and the bungalow they retired to has grown quiet. He told me that the days there were long. Like so many of his generation, he didn’t watch TV during the day. Radio Four was permissible but not TV, despite the many box sets I’d bought him, it was only allowed after six, starting with the news. He and Mum had had their rituals: breakfast – always the same, porridge and fruit, then at eleven coffee and a biscuit, a cup of soup and crackers at twelve thirty, tea and a cake at four, supper at six. When they were younger, they’d always had a sundowner in the evening, taken with great relish, but Dad rarely drinks any more. It upsets his stomach. He could cook for himself, though it tended to be frozen meals from M & S, his once large appetite reduced to that of a bird. Despite various suggestions about sheltered accommodation, he won’t move house. ‘I’ve got my independence and I know my way round here,’ he insisted. But, to me, it didn’t seem right that such a happy and full life had shrunk to one where it felt like he was waiting around for his turn to die.

      He was always the protector, the one we all went to in order to talk over options, always a good listening ear with sound advice to pass on. I adored him when I was a child, feared him as a teen when he became critical of skirts too short, telephone calls too long, but then came a softening as he grew older and I grew up. And now I knew he was lonely and a bit depressed, which was so unlike him. I knew he missed my mother, as did I. She had been the practical one who had run the house, he was the one who made the magic. On the rare occasions that she’d send him off to get groceries, he’d return with a puppy or a bike or a new gadget to try out. We’d always had dogs, but when Brandy died a year before Mum, Dad didn’t replace him, saying it would be unfair because he wouldn’t want a pup to be left behind when he died.