Turning into one's father

When one reaches a certain age, with children of one's own, one tends to notice a disturbing trend to become one's own father/mother according to gender.

Let me say at the outset that this may not be in and of itself a bad thing. My father is a lovely man and I'd far rather turn into him than pretty much anyone else, and having a close role model into whom to turn is doubtless infinitely preferable to a fatherless childhood.

However, one does notice certain half-forgotten character traits surfacing at odd moments. Such as - in my case - while driving.

My father had, and I am developing, a habit of dissipating frustration by giving a sarcastic running commentary on other people's driving. I find this better than reacting angrily or noticeably to the other driver in question. So "road rage" is replaced by "road unsolicited advice"; and to the guilty party it appears that you remain placid and unaffected and are merely having a pleasant conversation with your passenger. Or - if alone, singing along to the radio.
"Reduce your carbon footprint by refusing to use either indicator on approaching a mini-roundabout! Brilliant!" I say, smiling broadly.

Or "Yes - why not wait until the last moment to change lanes on approaching the lights, thus neatly blocking two lanes instead of one!"

Mrs Byard, inevitably, takes the side of the other person. "Well he might be lost. Or confused by all those big painted arrows on the road indicating which lane to use," she will say.

For a time, I experimented with Shakespearean road rage. "Fie upon thee for an inobservant knave, sirrah!" I would mutter. But it became too predictable.

Why reading too many children's books is a bad idea

My daughter is currently unwell, having gone down with a horible cough on the last day of term (how crap is that?). Needing comfort, she asked the other night for me to read a Dr Seuss book that she hasn't heard for a while (admittedly babyish for a highly literate 9-year old currently reading Philip Pullman's "His Dark Materials" trilogy unaided, but comforting for precisely that reason).

That reminded me of an incident when she was about five. We were driving to the school at which my wife teaches for some reason, and were listening in the car to a tape of some Dr Seuss stories. She starts to become suspicious of my navigational ability.

"Do you know the way to Mummy's school, Daddy?"

"I know the way to Mummy's school -
I know the way - I am no fool;
I have a map upon a spool
I read it sitting on a stool."

[Pause]

"Shut up Daddy."