a photo by Ritula on Flickr.

My dear old dad’s ears must burn everytime I make a post – wondering what the hell I’m writing about next.

He is a sweetie really, just a little eccentric. He is also a bit of a paradox, one of the most intelligent people I know (what he doesn’t know about Shakespeare or classical music isn’t worth knowing) but one sip of Tennants Extra Strengh Lager and he turns into Frank Gallagher.

He once brought a plant home and kept it in the outside toliet. Some bloke called Dave had given to him as a gift.

“It’s so pretty – look at the flowers” He would say, watering it with care.

It took a few weeks until he found out he was actually growing cannabis in his bog.

He’s also a man of contradictions. He will sit, arms folded and lips upturned at a plate of pasta and state:

“B****r off, I’m not eating that foreign muck!”

And yet the next minute, he’ll be creating a curry with flourish:

“But curries are different aren’t they…”

Different how, I’m not sure…

Yesterday he was offered the chance to have some Chilli, but he shook his head vehemently:

“Oh no – that’s stuff is no good for me. But I do like a good Con Carne…”