My Da never had much truck with Father’s Day.
And yet I wish, as this year’s Father’s Day rolls around – and as I have wished every day for the past two months – that he were here, even if all he were to do was give out, in his characteristically forthright way, about what is, after all, a makey-uppy date on the Hallmark calendar.
I’ll mark the day by having my first taste of those spuds, planted in the greenhouse by neighbour John’O, and whose progress the Da had keenly followed. They’ll be enjoyed in the best way possible – steamed, served with butter and salt, and eaten with family – which is just how he liked them.
A sign helpfully added to the greenhouse by my niece Emma,
alerting all and sundry (including the Da above) to the fact that
these are, in fact, our neighbour's spuds,
he being the affectionately named Big John Wire
Whaddya Sayin’?