Father’s Day

I just realised that I missed Father’s Day, well actually, we missed Father’s Day because I always be sure to include my long-suffering brother in any parent-related blame apportionment. We must have been on holiday when it happened and it wasn’t until I saw an old Dick Smith flyer than I realised. Also, it’s not big deal because we never really do anything for Father’s Day, except maybe have schnitzel (and in all likelihood we had that on the day by accident). My Dad never wants anything, he doesn’t like having money spent on him and unlike the usual four-letter words that people hate (cook, wash, iron, tidy) my Dad just hates fuss.

My father is as quiet as I am loud, as neutral as I am extreme and as patient as I am short. We have had many silent dinners, car trips and sessions of watching crime dramas (our personal faves). I am (here goes that magic word) lucky that my Dad lets me take the piss out him regularly and I have been know (at the age of 21) to call him up if I’m awake between 5am and 8am and feel like a chat (I, predictably, do most of the chatting).

A wise womaniser by the name of John Mayer once said,

Fathers be good to your daughters, daughters will love like you do

And he, in all his infinite wisdom is right. My French flatmate and I created the psychological condition (that I’m sure is well-documented in far fancier words) of “father issues” whereby so many of the girls we know who are in unhealthy or unstable relationships have poor or non-existent relationships with their dads. Your dad is the first man in your life, the only one is is supposed to love you regardless and the one who will teach you life lessons that you may never learn from anyone else (I firmly believe that mine is still trying to teach me to be quiet, but we’re getting there).

You may have never thought about it, but your old dad will have imprinted on you an impression of the world (and the men in it) that will probably be permanent. Few people get the opportunity to do that.


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