‘Who says it’s Father’s Day?’ my son says to me, with the questioning glare of someone who’s been told they have extra tax to pay. ‘Well, the world does,’ I tell him, suddenly self-conscious. I feel like I’m pitching the idea of a global celebration of my greatness to a panel on Dragons’ Den. ‘It’s like a feast day,’ I say, ‘a special day for daddies.’
Something about this – I can’t think what – comes out sounding quite desperate and he looks at me as if I’ve just suggested he prove his love for me with a face tattoo. It’s a look of suspicion, but also of deep and tender concern for my mental state.
