In honour of my father's birthday

My father would have been 85 today. He was a softly-spoken man, who read widely and almost continuously, and listened to (mostly) classical music at what felt like full volume. I say mostly, as he introduced Led Zeppelin to me, after hearing them on the Radio Three programme 'Sounds Interesting', and I first came across Gryphon courtesy of my father. More usually, though, it was some variant of classical music that rattled the rafters in our house, sometimes as part of a game we played in which I had to identify first the period, then the nationality and finally the identity of the composer. I did quite well at this game, but it helped that I had a reasonable idea from an early age of what he had in his record collection and therefore what the possible limitations were.

Saturdays followed a very regular routine in our household. Various chores needed to be done, but my mother always ensured that my father was able to watch the TV at 4 pm, when the wrestling came on. It's not something I ever developed a taste for, and I suppose there must be some wrestling as part of the Olympics, but I won't be watching it, even if Team GB are potential medal winners. But it was part of who my father was and part of my childhood.

So happy birthday, Dad, and here's a poem sort of about you.

Tea with my father

Saturdays, it was always the wrestling on tv

             - the only sport he liked -

and then, after the football results have been intoned,

milk-drenched poached mushrooms

on toast made under the grill and enhanced by the risk,

and weekend tea, made in the teapot,

aromatic loose-leaf Ceylon black

with a spoonful of gunpowder,

warming the pot first of course;

afterwards, arguments over the chores,

clear or put away, wash or dry,

and who has to tip the tea-leaves over

a distant rose-bush that retains its glory

for a sunnier day.