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I was visiting my dad at his care home in 2020. A window visit. The window was open and he was clutching my hand through it. A masked ‘carer’ burst into my dad’s room, telling us we had to close the window. “How can we chat through a closed window?” I asked. “On the phone,” she replied brusquely. “Like a prison visit,” I stated flatly, glaring at her as she reached out to pull the window shut. I wasn’t going to let that happen and squeezed my dad’s hand reassuringly. “My dad is NOT in prison and we’re fine with the window open,” I said firmly. Dad’s eyes widened. He used to like a bit on confrontation in the old days, but not then. The cater stepped back, then quickly retreated. I’d either hypnotised her or she’d suddenly seen sense. Shortly afterwards, a resident called Peter shuffled into my dad’s room. He came to the window. “We need to get out of here,” he said in hushed but desperate tones. He started pushing and pulling at the window, which wouldn’t open further than a few inches. “We can’t get out this way,” he said to no one in particular. “Let’s meet in the village square tonight,” he whispered to me conspiratorially. “We’ll work out a plan.” “OK, good idea,” I replied. Peter left, happy with his decision. “Silly old fool,” my dad said, rolling his eyes. “He thinks it’s war-time and we’re all prisoners.” I smiled and patted his hand.