Even Pretty Eyes Commit Crimes

My father was sitting on my doorstep. His bare head was exposed to the full bore of the sun and he was holding a pineapple. I hadn’t a clue what he was doing there. He hadn’t given me any warning.

“Dad. What are you doing here so early?”

“Relax,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

It wasn’t yet eight-thirty, and I wasn’t in the mood for him. I’d walked home to save the bus fare after a ten-hour night shift, and I wanted a shower and sleep.

“Did you knock?”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t knock. I didn’t want to wake anybody. I was just going to leave the pineapple on your doorstep, but then I sat down to rest for a minute and you turned up.”