So, this Sunday (the 19th), in the UK, it's Father's Day.
I've always had a particularly uncomfortable relationship with this day. You see, my father was a cunt. The last time I saw him - when I was 16 years old - he was still a cunt. He died a cunt, too.
So, when I was young and all my schoolfriends would buy cards and presents for their fathers, I always felt mildly embarassed, and sometimes it even turned into a sensation of genuine discomfort. At best, I'd ignore Father's Day; at worst, I'd hate everyone who got to celebrate it while I was forced to pretend that it didn't bother me.
But now, all these years later, I love Father's Day. I have my own son. I'm not a cunt. My son loves me and I love him in return - so much, in fact, that I can almost understand what being a proper Dad means, and even lose, for the briefest of moments, my own lifelong bitterness at never having one.
Happy Father's Day.