Fretting about my dad has got me thinking about fathers. I’ve always disliked Bernie Ecclestone – without ever meeting him – just because he runs Formula One, probably bribed Tony Blair, and is repulsive, teeny, and married to a v tall, v glamorous v young Slav wife. (And looks like he wears an unconvincing, Elton-John wig. Ugh.) And yet his daughter Petra is a hard-working success and says: ‘Dad has worked hard his whole life. He doesn’t deserve to see his daughters going out flashing their knickers, I want to make my parents proud.’ Obviously, he’s a brilliant dad. And then look at Bob Geldof. Everyone has always SAID he’s a brilliant dad: devoted, self-sacrificing, strict but fair etc etc. And yet Peaches Geldof is out flashing her knickers, taking banned substances, marrying on a whim in Vegas etc. So he CLEARLY didn’t do it right.
I was obsessing about this yesterday, and Helen, who works in the other office on my floor, said it was because how you turn out is all about heredity. ‘Didn’t Geldof take drugs and run wild when he was young? Didn’t Paula Yates? See?’ I don’t really like to believe this. It means that your future is sort of predestined the instant you’re born.
Anyhoo, sorry about posting this dullish thought, but I have been obsessing about it.
Oh, and my dad is very kind and unselfish and never took vast quantities of drugs, so doesn’t really deserve to be slowly poisoned. (If that is what Jacob is doing.)
