“What would you do if you were famous for a day?” Dad asked. We were in the car, driving from Gran’s house in London all the way back up to Liverpool. By the time we reached Birmingham we’d already exhausted every topic of conversation and there was nothing on the radio, so we’d moved on to random questions.
“I think I’d see how much free stuff I could get, so that when I’m not famous anymore I can sell it all and go on holiday or something. What am I famous for though? Did I do something cool?”
“You won the world record for the most tuba players you could fit into a Mini. Don’t you remember?” Dad replied with a grin.
“And that was enough to make me famous for a day? Must have been a lot of tubas.”
“It was 17. You managed to squeeze one in through the sun roof to beat the previous chap’s record. Caused a right old controversy because he’d not had a Mini with a sun roof, you see, and claimed it was against the rules.”
“Wow, that does sound dramatic. So, what would you do if you were famous for a day?”
“Pull Donald Trump’s human costume off on live TV: expose him for the lizard that he is!” he cackled to himself at the thought of it.
“I’m not sure you’d necessarily need to be famous to do that…”
Believe it or not, it was these memories I always cherished about my time with Dad. Not the big, important occasions like graduation or birthdays, but the little moments, the ones when it was just us joking around and being silly. It’s weird, the way mortality affects you. I expected to feel sad that he wasn’t there for my wedding, and I did, but nothing prepared me for the sense of loss I’d feel for the small, everyday things that I took for granted. I don’t think anything ever can.