It's been 10 years now since you and I celebrated a father's day together. I wish you were here to celebrate this one. It would be great. You'd be a grandad, doing your level best to spoil my nephew rotten. We'd have lunch, laugh, potter on the beach, and you'd fall asleep on the sofa, as you so often did.
But no, you're not here for that. Cancer took you from us 10 years ago, nearly.
I still miss you, you know. I still want to pick up the phone to tell you my news, or ask for advice. I still want to show you Shoreham and the beach, and talk to you about holidays and work and other things.
You know, if I make it to the age you were when you died, I'll have lived over half my life without you. I've already been without you for a quarter of my life. But for all your grumpiness and short-temper, for all the things you never did and now never will understand about me, for all the arguments we had through my teenage years, I miss you. You helped define me, define my life and define the man I am.
And for that, I will ever be gratefull.
Happy Father's Day, pops.