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Well, Daddy’s day worked out okay in the end. The children emerged (eventually) to bestow gifts: An amusing card implying that all dads are useless; “Manchester United Ruined my Wife” from daughter, signed by the author, David Blatt, who happened to be sitting in a shop in Stockport, ballpoint poised (actually, I’ve read the first 20 or so pages, and it’s quite entertaining); and “Down Under” on tape by Bill Bryson from son — which I’m looking forward to listening to in the car to and from work.

Oh, and I forgot to mention the early prezzie from Mrs Parrot — a neck, shoulder and back massage at a local emporium. Have to say, this was approached with some trepidation yesterday morning. The word “massage” and “paid for” conjures up a somewhat seedy image, extra services and all that, but it wasn’t — just ‘energising music’ and tough fingers up and down my spine.

And then I got to choose the meal — condemned man, or what — so I went for blue cheese burgers, mash, and greens, ending the day content.

Nobody’s prefect. If you find any spelling mistakes or other errors in this post, please let me know by highlighting the text and pressing Ctrl+Enter.

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