22/12/07 Neither Christine nor Spencer came with me to see Dad today. Despite repeated protestations from both of them that "This Christmas is all about Dad," their priorities were, respectively, shopping and alcohol. Christine took Muriel to Glasgow while Spencer, returning from a Christmas debauch only an hour before we were due to leave, declared himself too ill to go back out (though not too ill to smoke cigarettes and drink an entire cafetiere of my specially imported coffee). Their belatedly declared withdrawls left me to make my own way to the Room With a View (to Happiness). I would have cycled, but I've not had the chance to replace the Picador's warped front wheel. Consequently, I had to walk through a steady drizzle, eventually arriving half an hour later than usual to find Aunt Alice and my cousin Fraser already in attendance, the latter dressed like a seven year old and contravening the most basic hygiene rules by circulating the lounge with a Bassett Hound.

Doubtless sensing my disgust, the dog, with the canine instinct for ingratiation, loped toward me, thrusting his slavering muzzle into my crotch. "Keep Barney on the leash," shouted my aunt as I struggled to avert the drooling maw from my cream coloured cords. "Hamilton's terrified of dogs!" This last statement was made with such unfeigned contempt that I felt obliged to prove otherwise by going onto my knees and wrestling with the beast. I must have done so too vigorously because within seconds, Barney let out a yelp, turned and fled, his tail between his legs. As he retreated, I noticed that he'd soiled the carpet, but not before placing my hand on the stain. "He bloody bit him!" cried Fraser, his fat face reddening. "Hamilton bit Barney!" For the first time, I noticed the cultivation of a goatee beard that made him resemble an infantile version of Henry VIII. "Don't be ridiculous," said my aunt. "If Hamilton wanted to hurt Barney he'd shoot him in the back from behind a tree."

I'd not seen Aunt Alice since my mother's funeral. On that occasion she had been ghoulishly made up, unsteady on her feet and, frankly, objectionable. "Who on earth put Hamilton in charge?" she asked loudly at one stage as I struggled to co-ordinate the various tributes I'd organised: the piano piece proved beyond Muriel's capability while Spencer sullenly refused to recite the poem I'd given him, protesting it to be "that stupid f__ing poem from Four Weddings and a Funeral", an objection that echoed around the church prompting a silence that prevailed until Alice's interjection. There was further unpleasantness at the reception when she insisted on discussing events that immediately preceded our estrangement. "I made Hamilton Coe," she slurred to whoever was in her immediate vicinity. "There he goes, pretending he can't hear me: my own personal Frankenstein."

Today, thankfully, she managed to control herself. The afternoon, however, was excruciating. Fraser wittered on about a staff party he had attended, his soft, bland features vacillating between satisfaction and indignation as he recalled the evening in minute detail. Even Dad, drugged into a state of near torpor, stared at him incredulously as he recounted exactly what he'd eaten, what he'd refused to eat, how many pints of lager he'd consumed, what songs he'd danced to and with whom. Alice, no doubt cognisant of the poor impression her son was giving of himself, occasionally interrupted to ask him to expand on some work related issue. Ignoring her cues, however, he kept returning to his night out. Trying to compose my face in an expression of polite interest, if not out and out encouragement, I waited for a point to emerge from this interminable preamble. None was forthcoming. The story eventually unravelled with him falling asleep in a taxi and dreaming of pakora. This I remembered, with sadness rather than rancour, was the Boy Who Would Have Been Coe, the child whose clairvoyant credentials were obliterated by the Gibson Institute's lowest ever ranking; whose very birth coincided with my aunt's capitulation to mental illness and disgrace. In his position, I hope I'd have the tact to maintain a rueful silence rather than blow a tuneless trumpet while my saggy-faced dog lay at my side, emitting gusts of feculence.

Excusing myself to use the toilet, I sought out Linda, the duty nurse, en route and pointed out Barney's unauthorised presence. Five minutes later, just as Fraser had run out of anecdotes, allowing me an opportunity to update my aunt on the Foundation's activities, Linda appeared. "I'm afraid there's a been a complaint about the dog," she said apologetically. "We can turn a blind eye, but if there's an objection, I'm afraid we have to ask him to leave....."

Dad, who hadn't said a word all afternoon, suddenly raised his cane and used it to indicate me. "It was him!" he cried hoarsely. "I saw him! Scurrying off to tell!"

"I certainly did not," I protested. "Linda's just imposing the rules." Looking up for support, I was astonished to see Linda confirming my father's allegation with a sly nod. I was further perturbed to note the role played by nurses orchestrating boos from residents and other visitors. As I struggled to explain myself, I distinctly heard somebody say, "I'd rather have a dog in the ward than a rat." "Rat of the Year, no less," a second voice concurred. Turning to defend myself, I lost sight of Dad who took advantage of the distraction by landing a blow to my right knee, still tender from last week's table tennis injury, with his cane. As pandemonium ensued, Barney, the source of the problem vindicated my original concern by defecating in the centre of the lounge.