My Father was the archetypal head of the family, but my Mother ran it, and that was the deal that suited them both. Everyday he journeyed into the city for work and was home in time for dinner. It was a regular and solid pattern of life that brought safety and security to our suburban life. When we were children, my sisters and I would be taken to church and encouraged to participate in the various fellowship groups. After church, my Father developed a ritual while waiting for Sunday lunch. He would lift the lid of our all-in-one veneer sound system and select some vinyl to play. It usually began with the Broadway version of Man of La Mancha at full blast, closely followed by Fiddler on the Roof and a bit of Cleo Laine to soften the mood. This was quite odd because I can’t remember him playing music during the week? It seemed like his deep, personal reflection on life at church would give way to the imaginary world of music and theatre. Performance was my father's...
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