I remember my Dad taking me back along the A3 after I had written off Mum's Austin A40 and showing me the lane-closing signs that said I was running out of road.

I remember us making ice cream out of snow - basically by adding jam.

I remember my Dad building a box for a blackbird with a broken wing until it was well enough to fly away.

I remember when we went to see Ted Hughes give a poetry reading - I think it was at Hammersmith Riverside Studios - and we were both equally impressed by his sheer presence, much the same as, more recently, Jacques Loussier.

I remember when my Dad was the only person I knew that seemed able to mend things, or even make things from scratch: a television, an electronic keyboard, a back gate for Pembury, a coffin for Issey.

I remember taking my Dad for baked camembert and red wine at Cafe Rouge when he had threatened to discharge himself from Kingston Hospital.

I remember when I said I was going to have to get married - my Dad (and Mum) decorated the house and painted the garage so we could have our wedding reception at home.

I remember we were on our way home from remixing the King Lear tapes (at last!) and we stopped off for a drink in Weston Green and I told my Dad that I was leaving Maxine and he said, "I can see a lot of pain coming."

I remember when - ahead of his time - my Dad took a job with a boat builder on the Thames at Richmond rather than become part of a big corporation.

I remember how my Dad has never to my knowledge cooked anything more complicated than a poached egg on toast - with apricot jam... Happy Father's Day, Dad!