There’s a scene in The Father in which his daughter’s flat is empty. The shelves are bare. She has gone. And the camera pans in to the kitchen tap, dripping. It’s that noise, that slow heartbeat of a drip, that seems to epitomise loss for me. And if not loss, abandonment, certainly. It’s a left-behind sound, a vacated one. Forgotten. My bathroom taps are dripping. I cannot tighten them enough to stop it. Water is leaking away. Wasting. It hurts me.
