'Toilet.' I pretend not to hear. Or if I have heard, not to understand. Either is possible. When Dad's voice manages to rise above a whisper, which is rare, it is slurred, as though thick with alcohol, the words staggering out of his mouth and falling over one another, delirious and incoherent, like drunks ejected from a pub at closing time. And here he's up against the whine of the jet engines, too. I turn my face away from him and look out of the window, where, thousands of feet below, I can see mountains still capped by snow even though it is August. The Alps. Still the whole of Italy, and then some to go. 'Toilet.' This time it is too loud and precise to ignore.