At home
Hi,Dad.Your supper's in the kitchen.
John's sixteen- year - old daughter, Christine,was sitting at the table doing her homework. His son Andrew,who was thirteen,was watching television.
Thank, Christine, John said. I'm sorry I'm late. Is everything OK?
Fine,thanks. Christine gave him a quick smile,then continued with her work. John got his food from the kitchen. Fried fish and chips. The food was dry and didn't taste very good. But he didn't say anything about that. John was not a good cook himself and his children were no better. His wife had been a good cook,he remembered.
John tried to eat the terrible supper and looked around the small,miserable flat. The furniture was twenty year old,the wallpaper and carpets were cheap and dirty. The rooms were all small,and he could see no trees or gardens from the windows -just the lights from hundreds of other flats. And there were books,clothes,and newspapers on the floor.
Once,when his wife had been alive,he had had a fine house. A beautiful big house in country,with a large garden. They had had lots of new furniture,two cars, expensive holidays - everything they needed. He had had a good job;they hadn't