I nearly forgot my Dad's 60th birthday.
I was eight years old when I saw him first time. Well, that was the first time I saw him and remembered it afterwards. He came with a shiny big car, which colour looked like a palomino to me. He had a cassette recorder in the car and we listened to something, which I can't remember anymore.
When he took me home, I asked him if he could come to my birthday party. He asked me what I would want as a present and I wanted Elwyn Hartley-Edward's The Pony Owner's Encyclopaedia. Definitely, he said.
The next time I saw him was ten years later. It was the same year when my Mum said she bought me the book, which arrived a week later and which I had kept as my greatest treasure.
Today I was sitting on a bench, enjoying of the sunshine and tried to keep myself awake after a sleepless night. I watched my sons driving bicycles.
Suddenly I saw them standing still, giggling and then screaming loudly: "It's coming! It's finally coming!"
They were running towards an ice-cream van, which was playing it's teasingly jolly melody. I had forgotten I had promised to buy them a box of ice-creams when it would arrive next
time and there it was now. I had one Euro and twenty cents, two stamps and some bad tasting Easter candies in my bag. The kids watched how the mother next door bought two boxes. Our neighbour's son came to me and asked if I could buy him an ice-cream. I watched him to go at the end of the line, watching how the mother next door carried his two boxes of ice-creams.
Next time boys, definitely, I heard myself saying. Next time, definitely.
About my non-existent book - I’ve long been fascinated by the saga of Jim Crace’s Useless America, a book that never existed but, thanks to a typing error or a misheard phone call or...
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