Rusty called in for a coffee and brie sandwich today.
He said it was (or would have been) his pop's birthday.
He said that every year when asked what he wanted for his birthday his pop would reply: 'Peace of mind'.
He's got peace of mind now Rusty. I said.
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Rusty has shocked me to the core with that picture of his dear old dad, which appears to be 'Dear papa en repose'. Still it is hard to say and harder still to know exactly what this old buffer is up to. Could be thinking about his lineage I suppose; his progenitors and descendants, looking as he does like the pivotal inflation between Leonid Brezhnev and Ian Hislop.
My own father looked like a sloppy General DeGaul, propped up-right, military and very 1930s in his public house portrait of himself as a successful raconteur and war veteran. Funnily enough he never knew Rusty's polished papa but the two old rascals had more in common than patriarchal precedents. I think perhaps they could have conversed happily, wavelength entwined, about their disappointment of the young, how kids can be such bastards, even when they are your own sons. The brave captain virtually died in World War Two and he never tired of the replay; near death for the ignominy of Flower Power, the riot of disrespect and the tidal wave of thankless youth.
I guess that Rusty's papa had his own cross to bear being 'the rock' for so many; here's to those 'dear' dead dads, martyrs of our thankless childhoods. How could we have been so misguided?
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