Cee–Ay–En–Cee–Ee–Are

“Daddy, Daddy...
the router’s lights are like the paparazzi
in this cold, dark hall!”

“It’s fine, my boy –
Mummy’s tumour is a ping pong ball;
a Ferrero Rocher trapped
in her gullet.”

“Daddy, Daddy...
the hills are like my duvet,
those woods are my pillow!”

“It’s fine, my boy –
Mummy’s sucking on a Strepsil,
see their traffic light colours?
She's nearly ‘all clear’ green.”

“Daddy, Daddy...
the future feels to me like a cat’s fur
stroked backwards!”

“It’s fine, my boy –
Mummy’s treatment is
a game of Space Invaders
very nearly won.”

“Daddy, Daddy...
that plane’s landing gear
unfurls like my popup book!”

“It’s fine, my boy –
Mummy is your tea
after football,
just needs warming up.”

“Daddy…? Why is Mummy’s hair
all clumpy
like badly cooked Udon noodles?

Her breath is...”

“...just like a clown’s rattle, my boy!”

“...her skin?”

“...your gym gear, blotched after football...”

"...her...eyes?”

“just your...
just like your...”

“Daddy...?”

“It’s, it’s just like illness, my boy.”

“Death?”

“We don't know yet; around 70/30.”