Happy 68th, Dad

Today would have been my Dad’s 68th birthday.

Couldn’t help but wonder what he’d make of all this writing malarkey I’ve got going on.

He wasn’t the world’s biggest reader – a few Wilbur Smiths and some old cricket travel/joke books were about all in his meagre library – but he was a good man and a supportive bloke. I like to think he’d dig some of the weirder stuff I’ve written. HAROLD HOLT and the upcoming CHUM and the stuff I’ve written for CRIME FACTORY would be right up his alley.

I’m also sure he hasn’t failed to see how much I write about fatherhood. I bet he’d take the credit for that, cheeky bastard.

I don’t remember much about the old fella – certainly not enough – but I remember his laugh always made me smile. It still does. On a day like today, that laugh is all around me. That laugh reverberates through my words.

I remember my father by hugging my son.

I hope the view’s good up there, Dad. And I hope you dig my words, I wouldn’t have any without you.