In Summary
  • My future sons-in-law will get loving, loyal, warm-hearted and generous companions but iron-willed women, bred for millennia to lead the homestead.
  • This is my land where women — even when they are 16 and live in the iron jungle — are strong and the men are firm. This is home.

It was midnight, my favourite time of day. And I was doing what I enjoy most in life — watching pieces of American TV on YouTube.

I am obsessed with Trump and I can’t have enough of CNN’s S.E. Cupp, Don Lemon, Chris Cuomo, Anderson Cooper, Jake Tapper, to name a few.

Strangely, I also watch Trump rallies on Fox; I even watch his arrivals and departures at various airports. The Trump story is, to me, very unsettling.

I was lying on my favourite end of the sofa which, as you would expect, is also everyone else’s.

I find it amusing that when I stand up to go get something, when I come back I find someone has moved there. I am happy to share, though.

A thin sliver of Lagavulin and small bowl of my favourite mix of nuts — I am nuts about nuts — completed this pleasant picture of middle-aged midnight luxury.


My phone rings, it’s my 16-year-old daughter. “Dad?” she says in a fragment of language that I couldn’t determine whether it was declarative or interrogative. “Yes mum,” I answer.

It is always, if somewhat rare, a pleasure to hear from the offspring. As parents of teenagers know, it is not the children, but the parents, who need quality time.

But so long as the kids are generally somewhere around the house, are well behaved, allow me once in a while to get my food from Hashmi, so long as nobody on this earth expects me to eat KFC, I don’t mind if I am left on my own sometimes.

“Dad, it’s midnight,” she says reprovingly. “Oh,” I am taken aback. “ Is my TV too loud?” “You are at home? OK, goodnight then. See you in the morning.” And she was gone.

I stopped my show to allow me time to absorb the shock. My 16-year-old daughter believes I need an eye kept on me and has nominated herself for the job.


In the meantime, her mother is somewhere in the house buried in a heap of duvets, wrapped up like a ball of cotton, lost in dream world of stentorious snores and limitless peace.

You can break into the house, rig it with TNT and blow it into space without disturbing her peace.

Even when the burglar alarm — which is annoying and very loud — goes off and it seems certain that our security had been penetrated and the place invaded, she opens her eyes and fires up a small part of her brain long enough to confirm that I had suitably armed myself and gone to confront the attackers before sinking back into the covers with an ease that comes of long practice.

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