Then there is my own dad of course. He's actually spending the weekend with my brother and his family, which will be a real treat, given that the distance between them (Isle of Wight - Tynemouth) doesn't allow for too many occasions spent together. I've written about my Dad before on the blog (you can read it here), but today I want to share a little story that came back to me recently.
In 1980, we had a family holiday to America. It was a big thing. It was the first time that my brother or I had been abroad. We have a big extended family in Michigan, so this trip was spent in the company of our American cousins, all of who showed us a great and memorable time. Although only eight at the time, I remember it being an amazing adventure.
Naturally, many of my memories evolve around the food we ate. It was so different to what we ate back home: all the sweets were different and called 'candy', jam was called 'jelly' and as for breakfast cereal - I'd never seen so many varieties! I remember the pizzas too - great big things the size of dustbin lids.
However, at eight I didn't like pizza. Even now, I can't give a legitimate reason why, I just didn't like it. These pizzas often marked the end of days sightseeing with relatives, but like I say I didn't like pizza. So my dad would go on a wild goose chase for a McDonalds to by me a burger (no gerkins). He wasn't a soft touch and I'm surprised he put up with such fastidious behaviour. On one such occasion, I remember him returning with my paper-wrapped bun rather incensed muttering something about 'almost getting run over trying to cross the busy highway to get to McDonalds'. To top it all, I dare say his pizza was cold when he got back to us all.
I love pizza now and wouldn't step within 100yds of McDonalds. Dad: sorry that I was a fussy-eating eight year old.