Dear Dada,

I don’t know that I’ve ever written– “Dear Dada” before. Mama normally handles the correspondence. And I don’t really write so many letters any more because it’s all computers and telekinesis these days, but this letter’s definitely for you. It has your name on the envelope – Dada O’Regan.

I know you have your own name as well but obviously I can’t be addressing you by that. We’re not in some sort of cult.

Here’s the thing I wanted to tell you. I’ve been on a lot of holidays since but when we climbed Croagh Patrick together 23 years ago when I was 12, it was my best holiday ever. That’s some going, considering four hours of it was spent in Portarlington waiting for connecting trains; and we climbed the mountain in a fog; and I had a bit of an “incident”’ a few hours after the descent which led to you having to wash my trousers in the sink of the room in the B&B. (It turns out Club Orange and Monster Munch is not the best way to recover after a gruelling hike.)

But despite all that, it was a great trip and that can only be because of one thing – the company.

Happy Fathers Day,
Love, Colm