Newspapers piled round a chintzy armchair.. no sign I have been noticed as I tiptoe from behind and see my father's balding head. He pretends not to notice me as I circle the chair and stand before the spread of news he is holding up. His highly polished brogues are crossed at the ankles. The smell is a mixture of tweed and newspaper.. musty, musky .. it symbolises quiet rainy Sundays , boredom, creeping round a huge room and silence except for the hiss of the logs on the fire. I knock on the paper pretending its a door and climb onto my father's lap while he reads on...rustling the paper to try and gain his attention but to no avail. After what seems an age he smiles as he settles me down and points to the columns of print and then proceeds to read aloud. All around lie the daily papers. Piles of Manchester Guardians, The Times',Observers collected over the week to be savoured. The essence pervades the room and spirals up to where I lie with my face against rough tweed... and he reads on with words I don't understand but which hold me captivated. Then silence and a snore and the newspaper descends like a fusty parachute and shrouds us.