I have missed it come to think about it.

It reminds me of long hot summers when I was young and over the field or in the park. Maybe, as an adult, I haven’t looked for it so I haven’t noticed it as much.

Maybe it’s one of those things that’s been phased out gradually by successive governments – you know, like curly cucumbers.

There used to be loads of it. It was everywhere you looked. It’s as rare as truffles these days.

But, today, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I saw some. And in my own back garden!

You want to know what it is?

White dog poo.

It’s that time of year. Bluebottles. Buzz, buzz, fucking buzz.

They’re so annoying that instead of the traditional fly spray we’ve invested (£9-99) in a 21st century fly swatter.

It’s the same shape as the old ones; a bit like a tennis racket except you have to use your thumb and finger make sure it’s active. It electrocutes them.

I got in from work and saw it lying on the side.

‘What’s this?’ I said, picking it up half thinking it was for a garden game of tennis or badminton.

‘It’s an electronic fly swatter’.

I’m going to have fun tonight! I thought. Especially as Wimbledon is on the telly.

I went upstairs and got changed into t-shirt and shorts.

I was ready for action. There I was, prowling around the house, looking for flies.

Forehand – zzzzzzt! Blimey it works!

Back hand – zzzzzzt! I love it!

Over arm smash – zzzzzzzzt! Yes!

It’s a bit like the Wii but only cheaper. I can’t wait for the Daddy Long Legs to come out in September.

Satisfied with my haul of dead flies, I sat on the kitchen sofa with my new toy/weapon. I was waiting for the one last remaining fly.

I saw it. It buzzed towards me and circled several times before settling on my bare knee.

Thwack!

Fuck!

I’ve got a burn mark there now.

I’ll tell my mates it’s a carpet burn obviously.

It was one of the lazy days. One of those days where rain was on and off and the wind was being mischievous.

‘There’s nothing to do, Dad’ said R.

‘How about we watch a film?’ I said, with remarkable enthusiasm.

‘Nah’.

‘Computer? Playstation? You have a playroom for Pete’s sake! Why don’t you PLAY in it?’ I implored.

‘Nah’.

‘Ok, Ok. How about a game of word association?’ I suggested.

‘How do you play that?’ said R. P had now joined her.

‘Well, I say a word and you have to say the first word that comes into your mind’ I explained.

‘Ok’ they said. They seemed enthused at last..

‘I’ll start then…..Dog’

‘Cat’ said P.

R interrupted. ‘What’s a cat got to do with a dog?’ she asked.

‘Well, they’re both pets’ I offered.

‘ But we haven’t got a cat’ explained R.

‘I know but………look, it’s just a word game. Say the word that comes into your head. Let’s start again.’ I said.

‘Dog’ said R.

‘Cat’ I said.

‘Dog’ said P.

‘Nooooo……..you can’t say the same word twice. It has to be different word every time’ I said, exasperated.

‘Oh! Ok! You start then Dad’ both R and P said.

‘ Cat’ I said.

‘Dog’ came the reply.

It was a long day.

I played golf today for the first time in ages. I used to play regularly but I’d lost interest because I was on a never-ending losing streak.

I dusted off my clubs, donned my golfing clothes and off I went. It was a new found enthusiasm. I’d forgotten the dreadful shots and banished the mulligans from my mind.

But when I met with my golfing buddy I could see he was full of himself. His enthusiasm for golf never seems to wane.

‘I shot a sub-40 last week!’ he exclaimed.

‘Great,’ I said trying to sound genuinely pleased.

But all it did was fill me with a sense of foreboding. The old doubts started creeping back even before we’d teed off. I was in for another sound thrashing.

Then, just as we were ready to go, I noticed a young boy behind us. He was by himself and just a little taller than his own golf bag.

I’m not sure where it came from but a thought entered my mind.

I should invite him to join us!

‘Are you by yourself? You can come round with us if you want’ I told him.

‘Thanks mister’ he replied and proceeded to join us on the tee.

‘I’m Mark and this is Russell’ I said, introducing us. ‘Russell always wins.’

‘I’m Jack and I’m 11’ he replied.

I soon found out that he’d only taken up golf a year ago and he lived close by. He had no friends of his age to play with but was keen on the game.

I saw my opportunity to pass on my experience and, maybe, teach him a few things. After all, he could be like the son I’ve never had albeit for a couple of hours.

And, yes, it crossed my mind that at least I wouldn’t come last.

So off we went. I teed off. And I creamed it (a golfing technical expression). Jack’s face was a mixture of awe and admiration. The ball landed just short of the green, not far from the flag.

Jack stepped up and took his shot. He made good contact and the ball went halfway up the fairway.

‘Good shot, Jack!’ I said although he looked a little disappointed.

Over the first few holes I was getting into the game again. I didn’t have to worry about Russell and his impersonation of Tiger Woods. I had another playing partner instead and could show him the ropes. It wasn’t long before I was giving Jack a few tips.

I found myself saying things like ‘It’s how you bounce back from a bad shot that counts’ and ‘Concentration is the key’. I was enjoying myself and Jack, bless his little plus fours, was taking my advice gracefully.

By the fifth hole however it was becoming apparent that Jack was a pretty good golfer. In fact, it was becoming apparent that he might be better than me. Whereas I was whacking the golf ball as if I was trying launch it into orbit every time without any consideration of its direction, Jack’s shots, although lacking the distance, were straight and true.

At the seventh hole, we did a quick count. Russell was 5 shots ahead of me (no surprise) but, incredibly, I was only one shot ahead of Jack. One shot ahead of an 11 year old boy.

Panic started to set in. There were only two holes left to play. My earlier words of wisdom didn’t register with me and my golf swing went from whack to hack. Jack, though, kept plodding away and even had time to help me look for my ball in the trees a few times.

By the time we came up the 9th and final fairway, Jack had the advantage over me. Once again, my ball did a disappearing act and probably scared a few squirrels on the way. I was the last one on the green, Jack and Russell having putted out.

I took 8 shots. Jack took 5. Which meant he beat me by two shots.

I like to think that my albeit brief assistance and imparting of knowledge will go someway towards making Jack a better golfer. You never know, he could turn professional one day.

The little shit.

My Father’s Day Card said it all really. The front of the card said, ‘Whatever Dad says goes……’ and then when I opened it continued ‘……in one ear and out of the other!’

I laughed, of course, but it couldn’t have been more true.

I’m sure I come across as a moaning old grump sometimes. I remember that’s how my Dad came across when I was younger. But I realise now all he was trying to do was teach me to look after things and be tidy.

So maybe I take after him and maybe they take after me. Nothing I say to my daughters seems to register. I feel like I’m constantly going on about them leaving their clothes on the floor. Whenever one of them has a bath or shower, there’s clothes left in a pile on the floor. Whenever they get changed out of their school uniforms, there’s clothes left in a pile on the floor.

But maybe my nagging is starting to make a difference. Take last night for example. They were all upstairs getting ready for bed. After a while I shouted up.

‘H! R! P! Have you picked all your clothes up?’ I hollered.

‘Yes!!’ they hollered back in unison.

‘Surely, this can’t be true’ I thought to myself. ‘Where are they then?’ I enquired.

‘Over the bannister’ they shouted down.

Still, I suppose it’s a start.