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The sun came out in Dublin, and to celebrate I had 3 lunches (followed by ice-cream) and flitted the day away swinging from social-branch to social-branch in the company of a series of people who I like to call friends (being the body of individuals who have not managed to renounce me by emigration or restraining order) and did not do so much as a pinch of work.

However, it was after my audacious slackery that things really became interesting. I arrived home in the evening to find that Pops was home, tending to his bonsai trees (Mr.-Miagui-style) and was entirely ignoring the racket that was being kicked up on the roof of the shed as Quasi-Mojo chopped and round-housed at magpies that were trying to eat the bread thereon (Karate-Kid-style).

We soon decided (myself and Pops) to take a walk along the seafront and find a place to have a bit of dinner. Against my better judgment I invited the monkey, but thankfully he shrugged with annoyance and said “Yoga?” indicating that this was what he considered his current activity to be, and that I was distinctly inconsiderate for interrupting.

[Pause narrative to mention interesting almost Seinfeld-esque (?) moment we had not far from the house as follows]

Pops: Oh hang on, I better go to the cash machine to pick up a few bob.
Buckley (Jnr.): Oh me too… I’m bobless.
Pops: ‘Bobless’ eh?
Buckley: Yeah, Bob is alright, but sometimes I just need a bit of ‘me’ time, you know? …but then again… I suppose… [Buckley struggles]
Pops: Yeah, after all… he is your uncle! [Oh there it is!]

[Moment concluded]

It’s rare enough for a father and son to just go out and have dinner together of an evening and devote, what was at the time planned to be, two hours to one another’s company. But today, was a rare and special day, and two hours actually became six – coffee and night-caps all in.

Now even though one may have a very good relationship with one’s Pop, I’m sure most agreeable sons would still feel that they nonetheless rarely ‘really talk’ (as they say) with their father. I feel this way anyway, and I wholeheartedly believe that there are very very good reasons for this to be the case 99.99% of the time. This evening however proved itself to be within the infinitesimal remainder.

I can’t begin to describe how great this was for me, so I suppose I’ll just start in the middle. I somehow ended up discussing with him the essentials of my entire love-life for the past four years; barely pausing to remind myself that this was, after all, my father (who was married at my age, and whose loins I would not long after be the fruit of) that I was talking to. I told him about girlfriends he never knew I had, and ones he did know I had but didn’t care much for and said as much. I spoke with candour about what each relationship had meant to me, how my reasoning, approach and expectations had developed and matured and at times blew up in my face. I even surprised myself, and among other things, realised how grateful I was for everything I had learned from my first experiences love – painful though they (inevitably) were. He asked questions with a genuine interest, understanding and insight that I wouldn’t have even expected from my closest contemporaries. Let me tell you folks, this might make a dull read, but it was BIG STUFF.

We spoke for the first time about that dark time I referred to in a recent blog (not that he reads this thing – that reference was for your benefit) and he spoke about how he thought I was done-for too (emotional dimensions were skirted over to keep the momentum of conversation going; breaking-down over dinner is just rude, you know?). He told me that thing that every son thinks he is passively aware of but wouldn’t for a second admit he’s at all concerned about either way, but is touched to hear nonetheless: the simple, unelucidated, no-frame-of-reference-necessary-or-possible fact that he’s proud of me.

And there’s more. He told me about things that were going on in his life when I was growing up that I had never understood or appreciated at the time. I’ve never had such an insight into the man. It felt really good. We were communicating as equals. No-one held anything back. If this were the wonder years and I were Fred Savage, a line something like “At that moment we either stopped being father and son, or suddenly became more father and son than we ever were,” would have been suspiciously ignored by the characters as the camera pulled out and the shot fades into the dark night.

Now you may have come to expect more from Buckley than such mush when you log into this blog, and if this the case, for your despondency I’m afraid I offer no apology or redress but I will thank you for sticking with me thus far. Much as I didn’t realise it until recently, there’s more of ‘me’ in this blog than I had appreciated, and what you have just read, my friends and neighbours, for what it is worth, is (give or take) what happened me today.

…And I’m glad to share it with you.