Dear Daddy,
I’m not sure when the bag of fun-size Bounty bars stopped cutting it for Father’s Day, but somehow we have managed to get to the point when only a letter published in a national paper will do.
Lots of things have changed since your birthday or Father’s Day would be marked by one or more of the six of us barging into your bedroom at some ungodly hour with random (usually useless) gifts for you to marvel at. And marvel you would, like you had been given all of the tea in China.
So much has changed, but so much has remained the same. You are still, to me, the thundering colossus of strength that I always believed you were.
How, I often wondered, did I get to have the strongest Daddy, who was the fastest runner and best at sport in world? What a strange occurrence, but it was deadly all the same. It still is. Okay, so you don’t run around the fields training for a match anymore, but if you had to and if your body let you, we all know you would and no doubt you’d drink raw eggs afterwards to recover, just like you used to.
What has not changed is your propensity for bad, no, terrible, woeful jokes. By the way – switching on and off the light in the kitchen with both hands and saying “many hands make light work” is NOT a joke in the strictest sense. And that one about why the skeleton didn’t go to the dance (because he had no body to go with) – I know I found it hilarious when I was five, but you are being a complete chancer by thinking that I am going to laugh at it now. The trouble is I always do.
The purpose of this letter is to say happy Father’s Day. Thank you for being great at the job of being a daddy and you can stop worrying about us now, we are all big enough and bold enough to take care of ourselves. And you also shouldn’t worry that you won’t get a present because this letter could never replace the fun-size bag of Bounty bars.
Lots of love.
Claire
