Getting old is for sissies

It occurred to me fairly recently that my father is now an old man.

- 

It occurred to me fairly recently that my father is now an old man. I knew he was getting on, of course, but only because I was. That's why they're called relatives.

At some point, also fairly recently, I realised that I could take him in a fight. For much of a son's life, his father can generally whip his ass. Unless he's one of those wimpy little pacifist fathers and the son is a burly gym rat who lives off anabolic steroids and creatine smoothies. Normally, though, we avoid punching our dads in the face because we know we'll come off second-best. Also, it's quite a rude thing to do to a parent, no matter how much they deserve it.

Now that he's 88 and in a wheelchair, I am confident of getting the upper hand. Of course, there's always the risk he's concealing a weapon beneath that blanket draped over his skinny knees.

He claims to have handed in the guns in during a firearms amnesty in 2020, but it's been a while since I saw the WW2 grenade that used to be on a shelf in his study.

I'd have him in a chokehold and there'd be a click. He'd look at me with a mad, toothless grin and rasp: "You're coming with me, son."

My sister messaged on Monday to say she'd called an ambulance because he couldn't get out of bed. I struggle to get out of bed most days, but you won't see me calling an ambulance. I didn't tell her this, of course, because she has hated me since I was two and I need her to give me my inheritance when the old codger shuffles off.