Father’s Day (in a family of six)

“How many did I do?” my dad asked at the end of a one minute skipping session that my second youngest sister had been timing.

“20, but if you count the ones were you just put one foot over the skipping rope at a time, you had 25. Do you want me to count those?”

Trust me, it’s funnier when it happens in real life. Especially as it happened on Father’s Day.


We would wake him up with flowers and a breakfast in bed – but we needed everyone. The oldest sister of three was in the toilet, and the youngest sister was pestering her to get out quickly. We handed her a flower we had picked from the garden, and she got behind me. We were in a line from oldest to youngest, with Mum at the rear and ‘youngest sister’ at the front. She and ‘second youngest sister’ knocked on the door, and when they got no reply, knocked again.

My mum told them to just go in, so they theatrically opened the door, an awkward procession that woke my dad up groggily. We gave him the flowers first, with ‘youngest sister’ screeching, “TAKE IT!” and us telling her to calm down. Dad grinned, and invited us to join him.

‘Second youngest sister’ took him too literally, and half belly-flopped onto the bed, making the tea in the breakfast tray spill.

My mum quickly said she would get a tissue, but Dad declined, saying the soggy bacon (and honey) toast would remind him of the fun we have. Or something along those lines.

We still haven’t given him the cards.


(Happy Father’s Day).