It is a longstanding family joke that I (then a three-year-old git) suggested you (sufferer of pet-hair allergy) move out so we could get a cat. I didn’t even like cats all that much. Funny, yes, but there was a nip of truth in there; of course I loved you, but I didn’t really like you.

Our happiest times seemed to be away from home. I was convinced you were less serious without your glasses. That is why you came to life in the holiday-park pool, or first thing in the morning. Holidays, though, were also when we fought most. Forced to hold your hand at some tedious museum. Early to bed for being gobby. You were no fun when the glasses went back on.

The turning point was the night you took me to see monster trucks and I briefly thought you were the coolest man in the world. Your masterstroke – season tickets – followed a few years later. Did you realise I was still feigning enthusiasm for football? No matter. I soon learned to love it, and to like you.

I started to see you for who you really were. A man who was always home for tea, who never once put career first

You were always a bit useless at the mushy stuff, but it was during those precious afternoons – trudging to the ground, jumping about like eejits, swigging flasks of hot chocolate and chatting about nothing in particular – that I grew up and started to see you for who you really were. A man who, in darker days, had thought nothing of having to drive hundreds of miles each week to keep us afloat. A man who, once we all lived a bit nearer his work, was always home in time for tea. A man who, despite his evident potential and popularity, never once put career first. My dad.

Later, our happiest times seemed to come on long car journeys. Rescuing me (legless, clutching naan bread, confused about train timetables), teaching me how to drive, or sharing the load as we ferried people to and from the airport on holiday. The glasses were on, thank heavens, and by then I didn’t mind. That is when I started to get fresh glimpses: of teenage scrapes; of old fears and dreams; of just how deep your love ran for my mum and my brother, already seven when you came on the scene. And of your steely resolve to be the sort of father, twice over, that you hadn’t had. Suddenly you weren’t so useless at the mushy stuff.

And then came the day I came out, at the courageously young age of really-quite-close-to-30.

I half suspected you would go all “Harry Enfield” on me – which you did, I suppose, when I cracked a joke and you called me a daft bugger – but that hug you gave me was one I will never forget. As with everything else in my life, you seem proud and I don’t really understand why. What’s more, you talk about it openly and comfortably. You ask meaningful questions. You have started challenging colleagues when they make lazy queer jokes.

All this means everything, even if I don’t say it nearly enough. I sometimes fear I’ve taken on the mantle of uselessness. So, here it is.

I reserve the right to find you infuriating, at times. I reserve the right to laugh at the joy you get from moving everyone’s cars around, into the most logical order, when people come to stay. But I also reserve the right to love, admire, respect and – yes – like you a little bit more with each year that passes. And to tell you when I want.

Thank you, Dad, for being you.

S

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