Things, like a walk in the park/ Things, like a kiss in the dark/ Things, like a railway ride
My father was a wonderful singer. He’s not anymore, he’s dreadful. When I was very small, no more than three or four, we would sing Bobby Darin together, Dad taking the lead with the lyrics, me chiming in with the titular refrain when I got my cue. I thought we sounded beautiful. He was my pop star, my soulful hero, my Tom Jones and my Thom Yorke all rolled into one. Now I wince as I hear him murder Abba on long drives up the M40 to my childhood home, I hang my head in shame when I see video of him wailing Danny Boy in a cruise-ship karaoke bar, and I realise that he probably always sounded like this, like a strangled fox in pain. But then I close my eyes and think of Bobby Darin and I can still hear us perfectly, perfect.