Prone, but pain-free, Mother sits like a Bond villain in a bespoke electric lounge chair. Within her hi-tech but shadowy sitting room/villain's lair, she whips out her orders.
‘Bring me a spoon,’ she shouts at Father. Moments later, she shouts, ‘The right spoon, not the wrong spoon.’
There is a minion in the corner of the sitting room. He came from social services to fit support rails some days
