A simple, complicated man

At times, the man can be the biggest fucking pratt in the world, but, it was dad who recognised my anguish, when, as a teenager, my body broke out of its lithe shell, and bloomed so...fully. At that time, it was dad who suggested and made happen our run each morning on the beach. It was dad that used to push me to run that little bit further or little bit faster, over the deep, sandy track of the dew-covered headland. It was dad that would stop in awe of the dolphins surfing and fishing close-in to shore, and then take off with a laugh as I stood distracted by his Delphinus ruse. It was dad who advised me in his gruff, half-arsed way to concentrate on my studies, reminding me that boys, alcohol and the job he would not let me take, would all still be there in a year or two. It was dad who, in the absence of my mother, bought the most divine Singapore orchid, and helped me pin it into my hair before my end of school formal. It was dad I told, before anyone else, that my marriage was over.

Dad may well be the biggest fucking pratt in the universe from time to time, but I reckon I often hold that title myself, in his opinion. Yet, here we are, over 37 years since we first clapped eyes on each other, and I imagine we are going to go on loving/hating each other for a long time still.