Father’s Day
Father’s Day. A day to think about fathers. My father was the most exciting man I’ve ever met. I didnt grow up with him and I always had that slight formality - like in 19th century novels: a distance underwritten with goodwill and high anticipation. I have no memories of my parents in any domestic situations together, not even of them being in the same room. I had this unshakeable belief in my father, that he knew everything, even what I was thinking. He lived in London, and from the age of 9 I lived in East Sussex on the edge of the Ashdown Forest. One day when I was about 14 I was walking down the country road after school to the bus stop in the village. I had just smoked a joint and I felt completely stoned and very spaced out. I heard a slow subtle swish on the road beside me and when I turned to look, to my amazement and surprise it was my father in a huge beautiful Rolls Royce. He had driven down from London on a whim, something that had never happened before. I was so out of it that my normal spontaneous delight seemed to have turned to a slow motion tape. I was about to get into the car, at the same time thinking how am I even going to be able to form a sentence. Then I decided that he could probably tell that I was out of my head. I said something rather cryptic like ‘Can you meet me
in the village so that my head will be clearer by then?’ He gave me a searching bemused look and said okay. When I got to the village there was no sign of him, he had driven back to London. Years later I asked him what he’d thought about that strange moment. He said ‘I thought you wanted to be with your friends.’ Even then I thought ‘Be with my friends? How could I want to be with anyone more than my
dad.’ Here is a rare photograph of me and him together, when I was one. He did a painting from this picture called ‘On the Towpath.’
in the village so that my head will be clearer by then?’ He gave me a searching bemused look and said okay. When I got to the village there was no sign of him, he had driven back to London. Years later I asked him what he’d thought about that strange moment. He said ‘I thought you wanted to be with your friends.’ Even then I thought ‘Be with my friends? How could I want to be with anyone more than my
dad.’ Here is a rare photograph of me and him together, when I was one. He did a painting from this picture called ‘On the Towpath.’
