Happy Daddy's Day
The first memory I have of my dad is of him frequently returning home late in the evening, soaking wet and smelling, quite literally, like shit.
Old Man Inga was a relief milker for a time - I can't say I've ever had the pleasure of milking someone else's cows, but I understand it meant early starts, late finishes and lots of scooting around in the rain and the dark on a Yamaha. Dad would lurch through the door with foggy glasses and a muddy yellow raincoat, reeking of cow poo and threatening to hug me. I'm thankful he gave me such early training in avoiding the embraces of dirty old men - it's been most beneficial on many a pub night.
The next thing I can remember is the bubbidge. I'm not sure from whence it came, or where it went, but it bore a suspicious resemblance to Dad's right hand and drove me mental. It would poke, tickle, move things, steal things and generally be pain in my 6 year old arse. On the few occasions when I managed to smack it to 'death' I felt unaccountably sad for the poor bugger, even though I knew he'd stage a miraculous resurrection in a day or so.
Later, "bubbidge" came to mean any random bug beyond the extent of the old man's etymological repertoire.
"Dad, what's that?"
"Looks like a bubbidge"
Yes, very educational. The bubbidge faded into obscurity some time back, but I'm sure it will make a reappearance in my incoherent mutterings when I'm a demented old woman.
Happy Father's day to all the crazy Papas.
Comments
Your Dad must be really proud to have such a tolerant daughter.