What will the day have in store, I wonder? Hopefully not ‘breakfast in bed’ to start with – as this will inevitably mean ‘breakfast all over bed’, as the bowl of sultana bran and semi-skimmed being carefully carried by one of the sprogs is sure to slide off the tray and come to rest upside down on the duvet.
Some sort of card would be nice, preferably one with a long, mawkish rhyming tribute to a mythical fantastic father – and utterly at odds with the true feelings doubtless fostered towards me by my nine-year-old son, his eight-year-old brother and their five-year-old sister.
No, all I ask is that they give me a bit of a lie in and manage to get themselves dressed, preferably without killing each other in the process. Is that too much to ask? I fear so.
Yet if they do manage this task, I may deign to take them out for a day of fun and frolics. The latest venue for free entertainment is a certain camping equipment megastore that has helpfully erected scores of tents on site, in which earnest, outdoorsy types practise stroking their beards and eating mint cake – and in which my terrible trio run amok, tripping over guylines, careering through canvas and generally causing mayhem.
After being escorted off the premises by security, we may make our way to Inverleith Park, studiously ignoring the nanny-state signs saying ‘ooh don’t feed bread to the lickle ducky wuckies in case they get sore tummies’, or some pathetic words to that effect, created by killjoy eco-bores with too much time on their hands. I’ll be the judge of whether my kiddies can feed their feathered friends the odd mouldy slice of Mighty White, thank you very much.
Finally, dinner will be a barbecue, weather-permitting, with the children gaining valuable work experience by flipping the burgers and asking, “Do you want fries with that?” Yes please.
Happy Father’s Day to all whom it may concern – and to my dear dad especially. Hope you enjoy your Toblerone.