Fathers Day

When I think of you I think of bald heads and Risk - dining tables filled with boards and armies. Tactics and conquering.
I think of first footballs – too hard for my toes to handle.
I think of games we played with Lego and remote control cars - I can’t remember what that game was called, maybe you can remind me?
I think of mixing my cereals – you call it the Shenanigan Mix.
I think of Slip-Catch Willy – blindfolded siblings playing games at the bottom of the stairs.
I think of finger games like PC Plod.
I think of cough candy twists in the morning and The New Forest in the afternoons.
I remember kissing that van with the tomato on the bumper before bedtime and hearing stories about rabbits and bombs and living on a farm.
Nanny Duck loved you because you were charming, but I only know her from the photographs.
“To Timothy, Happy Christmas, Love Timothy”; you used to buy yourself Christmas presents – little books about trains. The Mallard was your favourite (it’s my favourite too.)
I guess that being a gas man from fifteen to fifty isn’t what you wanted at fourteen; I believe you wanted to be a butler, caring for an old Major in a country manor, but you shouldn’t be sad. I am proud to tell people about whom you are and what you do.
I promise I’ll pay off your mortgage soon, but first I need a job.