It’s Father’s Day, so Katy says I don’t have to go
to the shops to get the feta, and – even better – I’m
allowed to play my reggae. No word against
Bob yet, as the archival Wailers live record gets its spin.
Talked to my dad. He was good. We chatted about TV shows
and politics (which is basically a TV show anyway). We’re
locked down and bored but it could always be worse. (It’s
always worse for someone). Actually, things are pretty good,
all things considered. My dad tells me I’m having a good year.
I think about the climate, the politics, the war threats, the
unhappiness and poverty, the extremes, the hurtling towards
inevitable doom. Not such a good year at all. But you take
compliments where and when you get them. There’ll
be plenty of time to worry about all of humanity and our
increasingly inevitable decline. I can do that tomorrow.
And the next day. And then forever after. Until…