When my brother Dara got trapped by a Volvo, dad lifted it long enough for him to escape
I haven’t seen my dad in far too long. I mean, I have seen him – although due to his knack for wielding his phone at whatever angle pleases him during video calls, I’ve mostly seen his forehead – but I haven’t had the chance to be with him, much less wish him a happy Father’s Day in person.
You may recall that my father is an incredible man who raised 11 kids by himself after my mum died, but since dwelling on that risks becoming sentimental, I’ve spent much of my career cynically documenting his funnier behaviours for profit. There are dozens I’ve never mentioned. So many that my siblings will text out of the blue to remind me of the time he declared he could understand ‘most’ European languages (after discerning that most Spanish words sounded ‘a bit like English words with an O at the end’), or the famous 16-round competition of Christmas puddings he undertook every winter of my childhood (a ‘scientific and rigorous’ ruse to eat said puddings every week from September to New Year’s Day).
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