Dad

So - to complete the picture. I've already mentioned the plywood fort offering and of course the golfclubs moment. But the majority of my dad memories are something like this.

My brother's O Level results. I clearly remember that Dad kept on going back to the sideboard, where the results slip was perched against the clock. He'd keep going back and he'd pick up the slip and smile. Clearly so pleased. Clearly so proud. They were, admittedly, very good results.

My GCSE results. My mum suggested that I call him to tell him my results. They were, admittedly, very good results. "Is that what you were hoping for?" was the response.

"How do you spell [such-and-such]"? "How do you think it's spelt?"

A crashing smack on the backside for (I thought) innocently questioning the fact that my brother was still playing the same piece in his piano lessons that he had been for months. The result was not only the said smack but also a tearful appearance, from around the corner, and the proclamation that "we can't all be f**king Liberace". No smack for the swearing - or for the suggestion that Liberace was the epitome of pianistic excellence. It was the 70s after all.

Sitting on the ottomon, watching his back as he shaved. Waiting for the moment when he'd splash water on his face, rub his face with the towel, and quickly turn around, roaring like a monster.

Screams of delight.