This time last week was Father's Day. It's the day mothers prepare for by steering the kids to the "tacky present aisle" at the shops for cheap gift-set aftershave, "World's Greatest Dad" mugs, and if they're feeling particularly vindictive, perhaps say, if daddy recently forgot mummy's birthday, to the "Best Dad Ever" T-shirts, knowing full well that hubby will have to wear it in public at least once, to show the kids he cares.
The kids will notice if their present doesn't get the appreciation it deserves. They'll know if it goes straight into the T-shirt drawer and then eventually ends up as a rag. Just like I noticed when my mum relegated my "I love you Mum" decorative blue and gold plate to the back shelves. Jeez. It had its own stand and everything. Mum obviously didn't appreciate quality.
If you're a dad yourself, last Sunday about this time you would have been sitting patiently, waiting for ages for your breakfast-of-something-burnt in bed. "Mmmm, delicious!" you cry, while accidently dropping some tomato sauce from your pikelets (!) down your "Best Dad Ever" T-shirt. Oh, shame, it's dirty. Can't wear it to lunch now.
When you're a grown up, you make the traditional phone call to your dad, or you take them to brunch if you're in the same city. Brunch on the first Sunday of September is the domain of dads. Brunch is bedlam for everyone else. If you accidently went to brunch last Sunday and it wasn't with your dad, if you even tried to have a romantic brunch, ha! Whoops. Rookie mistake. You won't try that again.