Hospital visit.(Short story)

My dad was in hospital having one of his operations. I went to visit him. I took along a shirt. So there's the whole story right there, me, my dad, and this shirt.

Which I had bought, let me make clear from the outset, with my own money. You're familiar with the concept, I'm sure. This is where you live at home, cat your fill and more of the food amply provided, get your room cleaned, your clothes washed (and ironed, I'll say that for my mother, a top ironer), listen to the wireless, watch television, sit around, complain about the standard of your mum's so-called chocolate cake compared to what other people have at their place, contribute, goes without saying, not so much as a tea leaf to the household table, pay, naturally, not a penny of rent, and if and when you do happen to earn some money, then that's exactly what it is.

Sacrosanct.

Yours.

With which, on this particular occasion, I bought a shirt.

Of the gayest carnival colours.

In flowing alternating stripe.