This is a photo of my Dad. Circa 1939-ish. Having fun with a pram.
Seven decades have now passed. And today this cherubic toddler celebrates his 70th birthday.
I am, of course, nothing like my Dad... I can't paint to save my life. I have no interest in expert gardening. None of my photos has ever won an award. I won't be allowed to retire in my 50s. I don't know a dovetail joint from a mortise. I've never been camping in Italy. I can't bake prize-winning rock cakes. I have been known to break the speed limit. There are no photographs of me in a woggle and short trousers. I have never been a leading national authority on scientific matters. I don't wake up every morning with someone to chat to. I am not a pillar of my local community. I don't have grandchildren. I hate cauliflower. And jazz.
Or maybe we're more similar than I realise... We share a sense of humour. Whenever I sneeze, I think I sound exactly like him. We're both annoyed by the shoddily imprecise and the carelessly misleading. He blogs (and no, I'm not telling you where). We both, independently, bought the same beige sweatshirt from Primark last year. Neither of us have ever voted for... you know, them. We both leave the room when Strictly Come Dancing comes on. Given the choice of a job we believe in or a job that earns more money, we'd both pick the former. I learned my positive outlook on life from him. We're both looking forward to a nice slice of cake this evening.