Every Wednesday my dad comes to visit. I used to think I was doing him a favour. Getting him out of the house, taking him to the shops, taking him out for a “proper” meal. (He pays of course.) Poor sod. He doesn’t get out much you see. Oh, except for the lawn bowls four times a week at two different clubs. And his regular fancy lunches with a friend in catering. And his weekly jaunts up to “The Bay” to stroll around the marina. And his monthly excursions by train to Sydney to bum around Circular Quay (and take the same blooming photo of the Harbour Bridge every time on his iPhone).
Crap. Have just realised that I have been kidding myself. Dad is actually doing me the favour! Since I don’t drive I often schedule any errands etc on a Wednesday, so he can take me.
He even brings treats for the kids. Oh wait. Not the kids. They are at school. The pets. Yes. The pets. He brings fresh pet mince for the cats. We only give them canned food. And the dog gets dog chews. The cats usually scatter when visitors arrive, but Wendadsday finds them pacing about the hallway until his car pulls into the drive, then they start meowing furiously.
I’m also starting to suspect that they like him better than they like me:
I suppose I can handle that. He is pretty awesome.