My Papa.

When I was a little girl my Dad took me fishing in his boat. He’d put the worms on the hook for me and he taught me how to jerk the rod back swiftly to hook the bass. He always caught more fish than me so occasionally he’d hook them, then let me reel them in and say it was mine. No wonder I have such delusions about my fishing talents.

Apparently he’d walk the streets with me when I was a horrid baby that wouldn’t stop crying, rocking me gently over his shoulder. I can’t remember that and doubt I was ever a troublesome child, but it sounds like a nice deed.

When I was a teenager I’d come home from swimming club on a Friday afternoon to find him drinking red wine with the lights out and Pink Floyd as loud as the stereo would manage. Dark Side of the Moon is still one of my favourite albums.

Breakfast in bed was a staple when I was a teenager. I think he thought that was the only way I’d ever get out of bed.

He’s still a gem. Look at this garden he made me after driving for miles and miles to visit me in the middle of the outback. It’s flourishing, by the way and I don’t have to buy zucchinis, tomatoes or spinach at the moment. What a legend!

So here’s to you Papa. Not because it’s your birthday or some day that Hallmark told us to buy a card for, but just because you are an amazing man and I appreciate everything you have done for me. And for looking after Mama so well, even when she makes you move the tent after it’s already up.

See you soon!