DOING IT FOR THE KIDS

WITH FATHER’S DAY LOOMING ON THE HORIZON, INFORMER’S MAKING A LIST AND COUNTING HIS BLESSINGS

Next Sunday is Father’s Day, an event assuming greater importance the older I get. Sure, Informer may be jumping the paternal pistol eight days out, but I’m striving to end years of my children’s nonchalance. They regard Father’s Day as a naive concept, as something that isn’t real, like unicorns or a decent tomato or God. Still, where there’s life there’s hope, hope springs eternal and this year spring springs the day before Father’s Day.

Admittedly I’m being hypocritical in dropping Father’s Day hints to the kids about novels I’m keen to read and crossword compendiums I’m keen to cruciverbalise and ocean cruise stateroom tickets that would be just lovely for me and, I suppose, Mrs Informer (not that we need to be on the same boat). I also freely own my hypocrisy because my brothers and I were hardly paragons when it came to honouring our own father when we were lads. Rest assured we are more respectful today, especially given Dad’s now in his 80s, like Spandau Ballet and leg warmers.

He’s also a creature of habit because for years his Father’s Day request has never changed — a bottle of port wine from each of us. Now, if you’re not familiar with port wine, it’s a vile concoction that is not quite port, not quite wine, costs about $3.50 for a case of 48 and is listed by the Atomic Energy Commission as being more lethal than weapons-grade plutonium.

Nevertheless, Dad loves the stuff and, as he says: “I’m not going anywhere, I don’t need anything, I don’t like anyone and there’s nothing on telly. So, port wine.”

It’s difficult to argue with logic as solid as that. In fact, “solid” is the adjective I most associate with my father. What’s more, thanks to various anatomical replacements and medical procedures, he is all but bionic and will probably outlive the rest of us and all the plastic in Coles combined.

I remember the day Dad called his three sons together to declare he didn’t want any fuss when he finally popped his clogs, to which we replied in unison: “Way ahead of you, Dad.”

He added that he was perfectly happy to be buried in his backyard, rather ignoring the fact that because he rents, the backyard isn’t actually his, which might create an awkward situation digging him up when his lease expires. When it comes to commemorative days like Father’s Day and Mother’s Day, Mrs Informer takes them much more seriously than me. While we do our best to meet her Mother’s Day demands, this year’s request for a baton relay was a trifle excessive.

Having children was always part of the plan for the Informers.

When first we discussed it back in the 1980s, I planned to have children with Sharon Stone and Mrs Informer planned to have them with Daryl Braithwaite or, failing that, any other member of Sherbet.

However, lack of choice meant we were stuck with, and momentarily stuck to, each other, the result being a pigeon pair of offspring who delight me so much that every day is Father’s Day.

And even though they may turn up emptyhanded next Sunday, they remain in my heart as truly the gifts who keep on giving.

“ADMITTEDLY I’M BEING HYPOCRITICAL IN DROPPING FATHER’S DAY HINTS TO THE KIDS ... “