The Sarge

Several weeks ago I briefly introduced you to the lunacy that is my Mum (and Brother, although as far as I’m concerned the poor kid didn't stand much chance of becoming an investment banker or the Lord Mayor given our barmy parentals) and now it’s time to introduce you to... the Sarge, my dear old Dad.

By way of a bit of an intro to The Sarge.

Many years ago, when I was just eighteen and leaving home I packed up the truck (my three best friends at my side) with my comic books, pink flowery sheets and Teddy Bear (yeah that’s right a Teddy Bear! Just try and give me a hard time about it). My Mum (weeping somewhat hysterically) hugged me and my brother embraced me in his stiff Spartan way. I turned to my Dad.

The Sarge looked at me, his bald head glistening in the morning sunshine. His overly tan, Grecian skin particularly dark with the morning’s hard work of hefting dressing tables and bags of identical blue jeans and multiple pairs of Doc Martins. I waited (I may even have been wearing pigtails and a pinafore) for my Dad to bestow on me some great wisdom. I hoped he would distill my future life into one clear adage that would carry me seamlessly and safely into old age (aka- his age).

The Sarge walked towards me extending his arm. I felt the lead of his fist slap me "affectionately" in the arm. He smiled (which he almost never does), looked into my eyes and said,

"Darlin, take care of yourself..."

(Oh Dad)

"...And be sure to steer clear of the clap."

The Serge, ladies and gentlemen, my Dad.

Mind you, you’d think the old Soldier would have figured this whole human interaction thing out by now. I mean I’m his sweet little (completely clap free) daughter.

Poor guy, he tries.

My birthday swiftly approaches (the big twenty-seven) and my dad has always had trouble with birthdays. He can't handle gift giving (unless he is buying yet another LOTR DVD for my Brother). Last year I alerted him to the fact that for five years now he has sent me the same birthday card with FogHorn LegHorn on it. It's a lovely card with the giant chicken raving on about how wonderful the recipient of the card is. I loved it the first time I got it, filled with carefully selected Hallmark-usque synonyms for amazing.

Dad, feeling the success of this card decided he was onto a good thing and has sent it every year since.

I decided this year, I would encourage him to broaden out into other sections of the Greeting Card universe and last night I had a conversation with him that went a little like this...

"Hi Dad."

"Darlin?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, you called me."

"It’s my birthday soon."

"Yes it is."

"What am I getting for my pressie?"

"I was thinking about an eighteenth century Victorian broach."

Wait a cotton picking second. My Father, the Sarge (old "steer clear of the clap" himself) is going to not only get me an eighteenth century Victorian broach but he is actually going to venture out of his flat (completely decked out in camo green couches, sheets and tea towels) to go looking for this phantom broach... it smelt fishy as hell to me!

"Dad..."

"Yes."

"You know that the Victorian era was from early 1800’s to 1900’s, right? "

"Yeah, so?"

"That’s the nineteenth century, Dad."

"Hmmmm, perhaps the broach is a little older then... Listen Darlin, have to go. Your Brother is causing a ruckus."

(The very calm voice of my brother) "Who me? I’m watching Home Improvem..." click of the phone.

So this blog is for The Sarge, you don’t have to defy the laws of time and space just to get me a broach, Dad... a laptop would be fine. Oh, and if I get even the slightest whiff of a Foghorn Leghorn card... I'm confiscating your cable.

Love ya, Sarge!