As my daughter left back to her home in New York last month, my eyes were moist, was this ‘the little girl I carried?’ I wondered, and my mind went back a few years:

All you fathers having daughters know that when they want something from dad, they suddenly become all child again. I felt this change as she entered my room, and I geared myself for the assault, “Dad,” she said, “You and mummy are going to sing at my wedding!”

No, not a coach to have taught Hitler to paint better, though I do believe if he’d had one to show him how to paint houses better, he would have been the richest house painter in Austria, and the world would have missed the dastardly deeds of a despicable despot!

This morning as I looked out of my window, I saw a scooterist skidding. No pleasant sight as the bike rattled like a helpless animal and the rider fell heavily to the ground. Luckily, he was wearing a helmet, but the box he was carrying in the rear flew in the air, and burst open as it hit the ground.

Horrorstricken, I wondered, had it been a pillion rider, what could have happened?

It was a week after the funeral. She had buried her hard working accountant husband, who had painstakingly worked from morn till sundown, risen from clerk to bank manager, sent two children to college and jobs abroad with the income, and given her a comfortable life style.

Trust us for coining words that haves no parallel. “Give me a missed call!” I told my American friend as I left him at his hotel.

 “A what?”

 “A missed call!” I explained.