Not so much a memory, more an event that happened about five hours ago.
I was sitting in the passenger seat of my friends' car being driven back from a weekend in sunny Ipswich. Perhaps if we'd gone to the Dordoigne or somewhere more salubrious than a market town in East Anglia, this might not have happened. Although it probably would've.
My Dad calls my mobile. Can I go and visit him one evening and install his new iPod software onto his computer? Of course I could. It's a little annoying as I now live in West London and he's still a 20-minute walk from the end of the Jubilee line and it's a mammoth trek to and from residences, probably after a very long and very annoying working day.
I put the phone down. My lovely lady Muslim friend in the back seat
asks me if I speak to my Dad a lot as he'd also called me the day before, during our drive up.
"No," I reply forcefully. "He only phones when he wants something and now I've got to sort his computer out. I'm convinced that he only got my Mum pregnant 'cause he knew computers would be the Next Big Thing and he'd want someone to fix his."
I turned to my friend behind the steering wheel, my one-time flatmate. "You've met my Dad haven't you?"
"Yeah, at the front door when he came round to see you. (Adopts a serious gruff voice) 'Is Fwengebola there?'"
"That's right. He's a strange bloke. No chit-chat. (Adopting a more serious, gruffer voice) "This is his Farther."
It was around the farcical-impressions-of-my-Old-Man time that I happened to casually glance at my mobile phone.
I hadn't hung up.
I pressed 'end call' - my mobile's still relatively new and I'm an idiot. But I did think that perhaps everything was ok. This feeling of vague contentedness lasted about ten seconds, when my Dad called back immediately. I realised he'd heard everything.
"I heard everything!" merely confirmed this, quite neatly.
He's still not speaking to me.