My ancient Adeni dad has a cheeky smile and a generally lovable demeanour. And he is also an utter chaos merchant.
It wasn’t always thus. Dad, 92, used to have what you might call a “resting brick face”. That might sound mean but it isn’t meant to: “brick” as in inscrutable and opaque. It’s also a nice rewording of “resting bitch face”.
Anyway, the point is he used to be emphatically taciturn. He used to make Deep Thought, the computer in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which took millions of years to answer a question, look rash. In fact, he was so quiet and unsmiling that my siblings and I quickly learnt to warn anyone we brought home that he would almost certainly ignore them. No matter how friendly and polite our friends were, he would likely only speak if he had to. And even that wasn’t guaranteed.
This, according to our mother, a fiery Israeli of Persian heritage, was typical of Adeni men. I’m not sure she was being fair to all Adeni men, or just the one she married at the age of 17, 65 years ago, but she certainly more than compensated for our father’s silence. Just ask the neighbours.
Anyway, Menahem has changed and quite drastically. He has become positively garrulous. And smiley.
What’s more, he talks with great confidence, conviction and authority. This, with the sweet little smile, makes him look a cross between Confucius, a giant turtle and a dolphin. (Because turtles always look wise and dolphins can only look like they are smiling even if they are plotting to kill).
Sounds great, you might think. He has found his voice! He speaks! He talks to strangers! He makes proclamations! Yes, he does do all this. Less happily, what he says often results in mayhem.
Last week I took him shopping in Stamford Hill. I grew up in the area but as usual my dad directed me the car entire journey, accompanied by a running commentary on which shops had opened, closed and who owns them. The supermarket we were going to was, he told me, about to close.
Despite being a regular shopper there, I had no inkling of this and was a little surprised. But not as surprised as the people who work there, who were a lot surprised.
My dad took it upon himself to tell our lovely cashier that her place of work was closing down soon. He had been told, he said, nodding in his sagacious way.
Who told him, the cashier asked urgently. “Someone,” replied Dad. I knew this just meant he couldn’t remember. To the cashier it seemed he was protecting his source.
She called over several of her colleagues, all of whom expressed doubts, but after my dad stubbornly insisted he knew what he was talking about their expressions soon changed to alarm.
Before long, 15 or so staff – cashiers and managers – had downed tools and were discussing emergency options. Dozens of customers, including us, were left stranded at the checkouts as mayhem ensued about who knew what, when and why.
Throughout it all my dad smiled his cute little smile. In recent months, he has also directed a procession of cars to Wood Green car park instead of Alexandra Palace (and they had to pay to leave). He told us someone who is very much alive was dead (hugely embarrassing). And he wrongly and confidently reports that he’s had meetings that he has not, and denies going to appointments he has attended.
But he’s so darn loveable, you forgive him. It’s as if he is having a second childhood and you feel happy for him. It’s as if he’s finally having fun. And when I grow up I want to be just like him.
To get more from Life, click here to sign up for our free Life newsletter.