Father’s Day should be called Father’s Hour. At our house there’s generally some kind of hooplah around breakfast time: pancakes are made and a packet of Cadbury’s Celebration is handed over then opened, and the kids eat all the nice ones out of it. I get to feel special for several minutes.
Within about an hour the gloss has worn off. I’m called upon to provide lifts to Games Workshop or Kotara shops and, if I say, “No: it’s Father’s Day. That’s my special day when I’m the Prince of Everything and I can do what I want and I don’t want to spend my Special Day driving you lot round Newcastle” I get all this eye-rolling and teenager gasps of exasperation. “For God’s sake, Dad. Get over it.” What does that mean? Get over what? And they say, “At least you get a Day. You get a Day and mum gets a Day but kids don’t get any kind of Day.” And I say, as I say every year, “As if! Every day’s a Kids’ Day for you lot! When I was a lad …”
But then I pause. I remember to stay calm and centre myself, maintain an inscrutable, Zen-like, beatific smile. Otherwise I could end up feeling a little like this yellow football.
And then I drive them to Games Workshop and Kotara shops.