by Daniel Addercouth Annie Spratt I’m standing in my parents’ living room by the hospital bed the council lent us, waiting for my father to finish his lunch. Except lunch is too big a word for what he’s having: half a bowl of tomato soup that I warmed in the microwave. He used to polish off a whole can plus a handful of oatcakes, even after he retired from the farm and was no longer so active. My father sits propped up in bed with multiple pillows. The front of his pyjama top