All of the dads in the village have been in our attic for six days now. The reason they gave for going up there in the first place was vague. “Private dad business”, my dad had said, accompanying Dads Bishop and Henderson up the ladder, who were carrying cold meats and a box filled with cushions respectively.
“We’re hungry,” we’ll say shouting up at the wooden slat in the hall ceiling. Occasionally you can hear a muffled dad giggle, followed by other dads shushing, then nothing. Then Mum will go into the kitchen and start chopping peppers, sadly.