Fans of me old dad will be sorry to read that he spent new year's eve surveying the interior of Hornsby hospital. No thanks to a hypoglycaemic seizure (with minor heart attack), his first ever in an otherwise uneventful thirty-year quarrel with diabetes. For a man who wants nothing more than an excuse to eat 28 cream buns in one sitting, it was a shame that he had to take them intravenously.
By the time I'd made the trek oop north, he was sufficiently his self to offer the nearest nurse an account of my conception. Rarely does my father introduce me to a complete stranger without mentioning that, though old dogs in their dotage, well versed in the use of pharmaceutical contraceptives, he and his missus, without malice aforethought, produced the superfluous offspring that we see before us today. My father's homilies on the unreliability of the pill are one of the major factors behind the nation's declining birthrate. Similarly, his homilies on the rights of dogs, the wrongs of the Howard Govt, and his own ongoing entitlement to clotted cream because of heinous rationing during WWII have all played a significant role in the formulation of domestic policy. The nation needs him. The dog needs him. The dairy industry needs him. These are only a few of the many reasons why my death-defying Aged P. should recover posthaste and keep fighting the good fight.