A Dad and His Little Girl

    At lunchtime I went into the South American cafe down the road in Hackney. I had just ordered my meal when a man came in, ushering his twelve-year-old daughter before him. By the father's over-solicitous conversation and body language it soon became obvious that he was a divorced weekend-dad who didn't see his daughter as much as he would have liked. This, then, was a special lunch treat. She was a slightly chubby blonde girl with a pleasant face. She wore sparkly blue nail varnish and had her hair braided into a plait for the occasion. He stared lovingly and intently at her whenever he asked her a question. I was a little surprised to feel tears begin to prick my eyes at the lovely way they were both trying really hard to please each other on this special day out together. They walked to the table opposite me. He asked her whether she would like to face the window. She told him that he should decide. He allowed her the seat with the view.
    They scanned their menus and the father described to his daughter what constituted the various dishes. He ordered a cocktail and asked the waitress whether they could make a special alcohol-free cocktail for his daughter. The barman leaned over the bar and asked the girl what kind of fruit she liked. She said that she really liked pineapple and mango. The barman winked at her and said that he would invent a really special drink, just for her. I felt the first fat tears roll down my cheeks as I observed how lovingly everyone was entering into the spirit of this event and making the occasion so special for her.
     My meal arrived and as I began to eat I listened to their plans for the rest of this rainy day. The father said that he still had at his house one of the DVDs she really enjoyed when she was very little and perhaps they could watch that together. Yes, she said, that would be nice. She wanted to please her Dad, although she was clearly far too old for that movie now.
     I was by now finding it difficult to eat between my sobs. My eyes were streaming with tears at the unbearable poignancy of their conversation. Just a dad and his little girl being kind to each other.
    And even now, two and a half hours later as I write this down I find that I am blubbering like a baby.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Bethnal Green Send Off

     A family shambles into the pub, all dressed in black. It comprises a set of obese twins, one of whom is the mother of a boy and a girl aged about eight and nine.       "My god", she says to the barman, "I need a fuckin' drink after the day I've 'ad." She orders for the entire entourage and they all sit around three tables, which they hastily drag together. The woman now spots me in the corner and she galumphs over on unsteady, knock-kneed legs, with a plaintive look across her pale, doughy face.     "'Scuse me luv, can I take summer dese chairs?" She gestures to the three empty seats around my table. I tell her she can. "Only, I cremated me muvver dis mornin'. " she says, apropos of nothing. I give her my condolences.       She seats her two children on tall stools at the bar. Another family member arrives with two bags of McDonald's food. He places these in front of the kids, who eagerly dig in. The adults sit ad...
Read more

Clomping Through the NPG

   Three gangly, teenage American girls spread out and clomped around the wooden floors of the National Portrait Gallery in their chunky boot heels, loudly calling out to each other about the portraits in the Elizabethan rooms.     "Lookit this guy! He's so cool! Look at his beard. So hipster. I LOVE it!"     "Oh wow! This woman is, like, ancient. Check out that bling!"     "He's, like, a king or some shit! Lookit his hat! " I sought to escape them by slipping into another room, but they followed me in. This room contained a group of young schoolchildren who were sitting on the floor quietly listening to a lady Gallery guide explain to them the beautiful portrait of Henry IV. The three girls seemed completely oblivious to this, and they edged around the room still shouting out their observations on the people in the paintings.     "Gahd! that looks like that dude in that movie, you know who I mean?" ...
Read more

The Old Marquis

     I found myself at the French House in Dean Street, Soho, where I sat at the bar and had a number of glasses of the house lager. I eavesdropped on the conversations.      A young man in his late twenties asked his friend, a woman about thirty, how she was.      "Oh, alright, I suppose," she replied, "except for having to shove suppositories up my father's arse for the last ten days."       Two old gents were seated on the stools under the window. They were red-faced, very merry, and very loud.             "And, of course, when I was sixteen," one said, "I was taken under the wing of the old Marquis, and I went out to live on his estate. He taught me a great deal about society, and food, and wine, and what to wear to table, and that sort of thing. All kinds of things, really. It was the perfect education for a young chap, in all sorts of ways ... And, of course...
Read more