Never going back

During the terminal stage of my Dad’s battle with cancer we tried to keep doing all the old things. Weekends in Cornwall, days out – like it was his farewell tour.
Most of the visits were fun. I gave him roller coaster like wheel chair rides, nearly tipping him as we turned dangerous curves. That would not have done at all, “Son pushes terminally sick father off harbour wall.” 
But apart from the obvious sorrow, these are happy memories – my Dad was literally crying with laughter.
But not all the visits were so successful. When we visited the pub next door to where they used to live, everything had changed. It had gone from a pokey nook with character to a bland, but expensive weatherspoons clone. The old landlord had gone and the service was ropey.
This has been my Dad’s kingdom once. He had entertained famous friends here. But the cast was changing. My dad was history.
On the way home in the car he got quite angry, “I’m never going back…”

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