Seventy-five

Today is my dad's seventy-fifth birthday.

I love my dad; he's smart, funny and kind, and has never been anything less than completely supportive about everything I've done (even if he could never quite see rugby as being a proper sport like, say, football!).

I'd managed to arrange some meetings in London for the end of this week, so I was able to take him and my mum out for a birthday lunch at The Rubbing House, next to Epsom race course. The Rubbing House is in the building where they used to rub the horses down, although, thankfully, there is no olfactory trace of its history when we sit down to eat.

My dad doesn't like birthdays. He says that he doesn't feel much different from when he was seventeen and hates the label that age applies. I can totally see that. I don't feel old and I certainly don't feel ready to be told that I'm fifty in three years time :-/

Anyway, after we'd eaten, we stopped in a layby to look at the view across to London, and here is a picture of my dad with my mum. In a week's time, they'll have been married fifty years!