Father's day thoughts - my fictitious dad...

What to say about Father’s Day? Should I bother to say anything at all? As a father I could comment, as a son I probably have the right.

I didn’t set out to be a father. It was never a burning ambition of mine. It was one of those life things that happened along the way and, me being me, I went with it and did my best even though I don’t think my best was really good enough.

As a child I used to watch those American family movies where the father was always so great - playing ball and teaching right from wrong. He always knew just what to do and how to make things better. Those Dads went to work in the office, the factory, on the farm, Mom made apple pies and sewed on buttons - everyone was happy. .

How I envied those film kids their fictitious film fathers, even though I knew that they weren’t real. I envied them so much that I used to dream that I too had a fictitious father, just like the one in the movies – after all a made-up father can’t do you any harm.

In my film my fictitious father knew the value of things, not simply their cost and was able to appreciate words and art and music. He had patience, never roaring into a temper at the drop of a hat and bullying everyone around him, abusing their space and homes. My fictitious father showed my fictitious mother a little respect and allowed her to have an opinion without knocking her back with a barrage of bellowed abuse. My fictitious father meant it when he used the words “I’m sorry” to apologise and didn’t simply use the words as another way of telling you to shut up and do as you were told. My fictitious father brought a smile to my face when I thought about him, rather than emptiness and bad, bad memories. My fictitious father liked and respected me and I liked and respected him back. We had things in common, shared interests, understood what we meant when we spoke to each other, he was even able to see my point of view and I his. My fictitious father never stormed out of my house in a childish rage simply because he couldn’t get his own way. My fictitious father was the sort of dad you could have a pint with, have a joke with, touch.

I suppose. I never set out to be a father. Like fairies, I don’t believe in them.