I think I have adjusted to the fact that Fathers’ Day exists now. It was never a day we remembered when I grew up, so I had about thirty years without it. Now, I suddenly notice a surge in ads on TV suggesting that Dad might like a gift card to a hardware or auto store. Why is it that all Dads are supposed to like cars and hardware? You may as well talk to me about tax law in 19th century Russia. Perhaps these ads are targeted at the kind of people who go to Thai restaurants in packs and shout Fa%&ot and C&%t at each other across the table.
I received a card from number one daughter.
While this is not a strictly accurate rendering of my hairline, fingers, or ears I feel it captures my overall enjoyment of a nice blue top.
I also received a card from my wife (I am not her father):
This card signifies the fact that I am like a train loaded with cargo in an autumnal scene.
I took portraits of number two daughter (with clothes rack):
and number one daughter (with scooter scarf):
We went to the Botanical Gardens and saw the overfed, contemptuous ducks, and the virtuous, constipated faces of joggers. The tulips are almost out. The magnolias are. We went to the fountain where a baby Oscar Wilde sits on plinth surrounded by quite plump copper frogs that shoot water out of their mouths and into the pond.
I wrestled the push chair up a hill and Eleanor wrestled the word Botanical to the ground: Mechanical Gardens? Bottomanical Gardens? Manical Gardens? The word won, but Eleanor gave it a fight for its money. At the top of the hill we admired Wellington, while Rosamund took a break from calling “kak, kak” at all the ducks we passed.
Time then to go home.
Go home and listen to Benjamin Britten (thanks Wes).