Father's Day

It being Easter Sunday, I took my father out to lunch at a lovely old pub in Knaresborough.

It took an hour of persuasion, cajolery, threats, washing his hair and giving him a shower before he would leave his bungalow. He's 83, has COPD, psoriasis, arthritis and a Victor Meldrew mindset; you can see how it might take a little time to prepare him.

He whined and bleated all the way to the pub, complaining that he hasn't eaten a full meal since the relief of Mafeking and it would just be a waste of money. Once seated at the table, however, he metamorphosed into Son of Pacman and proceeded to polish off a full roast beef lunch with all the trimmings, followed by apple pie and custard. It was a good thing that the waitress removed his dishes while he was distracted; otherwise, it might have ended in A&E and a nasty court case.

When I dropped him off at his place, he told me he'd had a great day.

Worth every penny.