My father has a fantastically large collection of shirts. Aside from these he clearly also owns many other items of clothing in varying quantities and styles and cuts but it is his so many shirts that come to mind very often when I think of him. I could count them some day but I feel that to reveal the exact number would be an indiscretion on my part. Suffice to say that an average man’s wardrobe might contain less units of clothing than all the shirts my father has between those he keeps on active duty and the large reserve maintained on standby. When the five of us happen to coincide under my parent’s roof, invariably we’ll take good-natured pot-shots at each other as we push buttons, pull legs, fuel myths and toy with each others idiosyncrasies. Jokes regarding my dad’s mountain of shirts are a family standard but he looks back at us every time with weary bemusement, earnestly asking us what all the fuss is about.

Because I know he will be reading this sooner or later I’m going to goad him, tongue in cheek, by calling him an undiagnosed “hoarder-light” although it would be fairer to say that my father is, on the one hand, a man who sees no sense in discarding an item of clothing just for the sake of it – because one is bored of it for example – and on the other hand I think it can safely be said of him that he is a sentimental old boy who is loath to get rid of anything that might invoke a memory or that might mark a moment in time, be it a piece of clothing, a book or anything else for that matter. I feel much the same connection with my books and my music, certain objects and to a lesser degree with certain items of clothing. So in many ways I understand him. I’m convinced, after all these years, as his ever growing collection of shirts quietly takes possession of the top floor of my parent’s house, creeping into our various wardrobes now that us not-so-little ones have fled the nest, it is in fact his warm sentimental heart that nourishes his impulse to keep and collect.

The truth be told, my father for years has been the victim of being a Dad and we – as kids – have all contributed to the mountain of shirts he has and to the slightly smaller hill of ties and jumpers. As children, growing up at different stages, my father must have grown sick to the teeth of birthday after Christmas after birthday of one more tie and yet another bloody shirt. As we grew older and became more sensitive to his tastes and interests we flooded the house with books on linguistics, on wine, on history; ad nauseam, for years, poor man. It can only be the truest manifestation of paternal love to show enthusiasm for a gift, quite like the one you were given the year before, especially when in effect it was payed for by you with the pocket money you have been giving your son or daughter over the previous weeks.

Obviously as the three of us grew into more thoughtful young adults most of these patterns were broken and my father began to be spared our mindless lack of imagination. I remember in particular his birthday in August of 2005 as I was getting ready to move to Barcelona. He was really starting to get in to his cycling so I went and got him various bits of gear that I thought he might like to have; a helmet, some gloves, some padded lycra shorts, that sort of thing. He was over the moon!

My father isn’t much of a reader of fiction – at least not these days – and I know this and have been aware of this as long as I can remember. A few years back I read Salman Rushdie’s “The Enchantress of Florence” which I absolutely loved and I thought cheekily that although it is a novel it might actually appeal to him as the story is so entrenched in the history of renaissance Florence; a period of history that has always really interested him. So I gave it to him for Christmas. He seemed genuinely interested as I told him more or less what it concerned and why I thought he might enjoy it. A few weeks later I was back in Barcelona and him and I were having a chat on the phone. I asked him how he was getting on with the book. He’d read the first couple of chapters but was also engrossed with another couple of books so it wasn’t going as fast as he liked. Another couple of weeks later in a similar conversation I asked if he was enjoying it and he replied that he was…(pause)… but he’d got distracted with some other things so he hadn’t advanced all that much with it since we’d last spoken. By now I had sort of understood that this time I might have drawn a blank with him and I stopped asking him about it.

I was back in Lisbon for a few days in the spring and one night, after we’d finished dinner over a few glasses of wine,I asked him if he’d mind telling me what had gone wrong with the book as I’d been quite convinced he’d enjoy it. He stopped….and drew a long breath…

What came next was priceless; not so much in terms of what he answered me but more in terms of his delivery.
“Do you know….” he started, “it’s not that I wasn’t enjoying it…..it’s more that I don’t think I’ve ever read a book of that kind in my life.”
I looked at him for a moment and burst out laughing. The way he’d said it you’d think I’d given him a copy of “Mein Kampf” or “An introduction to the joys of Bondage”. Bless him!

Daddy, you are getting a tie this year!