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.