...And I'm picking up a few of his habits at an alarming rate, especially when I spend about only 10% of my year in the same county as him. Up until a few years ago, I thought the resemblance was merely physical - same eye colour and shape, dark hair, and stupidly big feet. But now its getting far more than genetic.
I think I first noticed this strange phenomena in a drunken state. When I return home from an evening's merriment, I appear without much warning, much like dad. In the same fashion, I pop my head round the living room to to assess how much noise it is acceptable for me to make - all while trying to give the illusion of sobriety. I find that this only ever leads to you appearing drunker than you actually are. Regardless of whether people are asleep or awake, the ritual continues in the same way. Proceed to the kitchen, switching on every light along the way, and go straight for the kettle. Now, to ponder what to feast upon. Dad will go for the frying pan or more often, he will try to execute a seriously complex sandwich, requiring the fridge to be left open for about an hour. The added bonus of such a culinary delight is the sheer amount of cutlery and crockery that can be used, leading to an opportunity to make further noise with the dishwasher.
I, however, usually opt for the simple bowl of cereal. I bloody love cereal. But I've become a real fan of the classic cheese and ham sandwich, or cooking sausage rolls for the 10 people in my kitchen at 5am.
This is followed by a return to the living room, and viewing countless, pointless pages of teletext, or since getting Sky, stuff-that-pops-up-when-you-press-the-red-button. The only time I have used that little red button while sober is for MTV2 news and for the Beeb's Olympics coverage because I wanted to watch the showjumping and not two people swimming for 10km. Once drunken-munchies are consumed, its off to bed.
Another shared hobby is watching the deep sea trawler programmes that can be viewed on Sky at any given time. I don't know why I find them so enthralling, I have no interest in the subject, I don't wish to pursue such a career, nor does it affect me in any way. At least dad has the excuse of being obsessed with fishing and such. But they are essentially all the same. The season is bad. The nets broke. They all start bitching at each other like menopausal cranks because they get about 4 minutes sleep a week. The food is shit. They encounter a life-threatening storm. Then all comes good in the last quarter of the programme, they net a cornucopia of fish, the weather calms and they all get home safe and sound for a big sleep. Lovely. Yet it will never get old. Am I alone on this one?
I've always been a social butterfly, a quality I attribute to my dad. Everywhere we go, he knows someone, failing that - meets someone who knows someone he knows. In the last year or so, this heredity trait has really taken flight. Its not the weekend unless I have made a new best friend or introduced a newbie to the joy of "Alrigh' my luvver?". The talent of being able to hold a conversation with a stranger on any topic is proving a valuable one in the world of retailing. Much like being an expert on stuff you know virtually nothing about, like aubergines. I don't have the first clue about cooking them, but I can reel off quite a spiel if a customer asks me; Dad can bullshit his way through a conversation about soccer quite convincingly, though I'm certain he knows shag all about it.
Maybe I've sat on the tills of Lidl for too many Monday and Thursday mornings, seeing people's glee in rushing in at 8am to fill up a trolley with cheap plants and gardening gear (it is pretty cheap...). Or maybe I've inherited Dad's interest in gardening. As a hobby, he is quite sporadic about it. For months - nothing. Then the first bit of sun and he is out mowing the grass, making potato beds, moving the evergreen trees AGAIN, and talking about "sheltering plants" that he believes can be made to create a fort like structure around our measly bit of bog. Every few years, nothing beats a bit of fencing. The man loves to fence stuff needlessly. But living in Dublin sorta puts a stop to me indulging my green-fingered urges. There are some dead flowers on my windowsill, but they look right arty in the starfruit cider bottle.
There is a fishing tackle shop beneath my apartment block... should I ever find myself in there on a spending spree, then I'll know its time to seek professional help.
