ISN'T Father's Day supposed to be the one day of the year when us poor, hard-done-by dads get to relax? To be frank, I'd hoped for one of those Father's Day presents that costs nothing, but when I tried getting romantic, the love of my life looked me in the eye and said: "You really need to start putting your energies into the garden at your age."
Only 39 and I have to put my red-blooded energies into the garden!
I carried my disappointment outside and I did as I was told. It's a big garden and it takes three hours to mow. (Okay, I wasted half an hour of Father's Day morning with an emergency trip to the garage, after filling the new petrol mower with diesel - but who's perfect?)
Mum had to pop to the shops while I mowed the lawn. She's always having to "pop to the shops", my wife. By the time she returned, the lawn had been beautifully manicured with the PETROL mower. "The lawn looks nice, doesn't it?" I asked.
She surveyed the garden with a calculating eye: "You've left the shed door open," she said, coolly.
"Sorry?"
"The rabbits will get in and poo all over the shed, I'll have to clean it up."
I admit to being upset. But not for long. After all, she'd returned with my Father's Day present. It was big and begging to be unwrapped.
A hammock! My own hammock - the very symbol of relaxation. I couldn't wait. We chose the most suitable trees and hung up the hammock, using the large hooks she'd bought specially from the DIY store. "I'll take the kids out to give you some peace," she said, continuing the sudden attack of consideration.
The perfectly-shorn garden beckoned. No kids. No grass to cut. Nothing.
A shower. . .a fresh pair of shorts and nice white T-shirt... a delectable glass of red wine... the paper... I could read the Sunday paper... in my hammock.
I also took the mobile phone so I could ring my dad to discuss the prospects for Royal Ascot the following week.
I climbed into my hammock, swaying above the lawn, and took a sip of Merlot. The sun glinted hypnotically through the branches as I rocked gently in the breeze. Bliss. I did nothing for a few minutes before I picked up the paper and dialled dad's number.
The next thing I remember is hearing a crack and landing painfully on the hard, protruding roots of the tree. The wine was splashed dramatically across my chest and, for a second, I thought I'd been shot by a sniper.
I was brought back to reality by dad's voice crackling through the phone: "Son? Are you there son? Hello. Hello. I think this phone's on the blink again..."
Before I could reach the phone, Jack, aged seven, appeared at the kitchen door: "Hiya, Dad. Can I have a turn in your hammock now?"
To cap it all, his mum followed him in to the garden and shouted: "What on earth are you doing down there? Oh, look at your T-shirt. That's never going to come out."
Father's Day is on a Monday next year. I'll be at work.
THE THINGS THEY WRITE
"You're the best dad in the world...I love you a bit more than cheese sandwiches," Hannah, aged nine, in her Father's Day card. When she was three, she'd told me she loved me "nearly as much as cheese sandwiches". It's getting better all the time.
THE THINGS THEY SAY
Two little girls in Durham City were sharing a bath. "When we grow up, will we have those things on our chests like Mum has?" asked one. "Of course we will," replied the other.
"But what are they for?" came the question.
"They're to hang your bra on, silly," was the instant explanation.
Read more from Dad at Large here.
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