Latest news with #Dad
The Guardian
13 hours ago
- Automotive
- The Guardian
Dad has never been afraid to bargain. The day I bought my car, I saw a master at work
I was nine when Dad first gave me the advice that would be a golden thread, a parable of wisdom conveying all his hard-earned knowledge in a few words. He had just finished a long week at the mixed business we owned in the city, and we were at Menai Marketplace in Sydney's south for a very special purchase. I was desperate for a PlayStation 1. I pointed at the Big W price tag and asked: 'Dad, is this expensive?' He said that nothing was expensive for us, as long as I got good marks in my tests. We went to the counter. The saleswoman was a blond middle-aged lady. 'Now, tell me, my dear,' he began. 'Is this your best price?' I went outside to let Dad work the trade. On the way home, PlayStation in tow, I asked him why he always did that. He told me that I should never be afraid to bargain: 'If you don't ask, you don't get!' Dad has been putting this maxim to the test every day of his life. In theory, it might sound like some lofty invocation to be courageous, to tackle every challenge boldly. In practice, it's the more banal reality of him asking the guy at the Aldi counter if there are any further reductions on liquorice bullets. In 2022, more than 20 years after the release of the PlayStation 1, I follow Dad into a Volkswagen dealership. Now hunched with sciatica, he still has a purposeful confidence and a rugged but wearied charisma about him. He wants me to feel satisfied with a purchase that will make me proud for a long time after I drive away. He also thinks I'm stupid with salespeople, liable to say and pay too much. There is only one car we're really interested in, and it's not even a Volkswagen. Dad says European cars are too hard to maintain. I give the game away almost immediately, spotting the 2004 Kia Cerato, which Dad discovered after extensive digging online, parked outside with all the other pre-owned vehicles. I tell him it looks like it's in good shape. Dad pulls me aside abruptly and tells me, in Arabic, not to let the dealers know I like the car. Inside the dealership, Dad begins his predatory shark game. His face is grave: vague curiosity, little expression. He circles the gleaming, air-conditioned lot. With his walking stick, he hits a hub cap here and strikes a bonnet there. He is declaring his presence. In his home city – El-Qantara el-Sharqîya, a small town on the Suez canal – fishermen would throw their lines into the canal and wait for hours for fish to take the bait. Today, Dad is also baiting his catch, deliberately provoking the sales staff – standard issue white guys in navy blue polyester suits. Who is the hungriest fish? I follow him from afar, swallowing my frustration and preparing myself for a drawn out pursuit. After about 10 minutes, someone approaches. Dad asks the skinny salesman what he thinks of the Kia. The salesman says it doesn't matter what he thinks, what matters is what Dad thinks. With this, he opens the Cerato's door and gestures for us to sit down. Dad lumbers laboriously into the front seat. He examines the freshly detailed interior. The steering wheel, the rear-view mirror, the glove compartment. He glances at the logbook. Nothing escapes his gaze or his barrage of questions about the previous owners, registration dates and thoroughness of the last service. Dad pulls the car on to the street. I'm in the passenger seat and the salesman is in the back. The salesman reminds us of the 50km/h speed limit. Dad puts his loafer down hard on the accelerator. 'Acceleration a bit slow,' Dad says as he charges down a shopping strip, causing a small woman to jump back from the pedestrian crossing and knock over her fabric wheelie trolley. We arrive back at the dealership. The salesman's composure is intact and Dad's face is like a slate of old granite in the Valley of the Kings. I'm anxious about the possibility that I will not take this car home today, because Dad won't like the price. The salesman says the car is in great condition, and asks if we would like to drive home with it today. Dad mumbles some protestations about the condition of the car. That's when our salesman surprises me. He tells us there are plenty of other buyers interested in the car, and that he won't waste our time if we won't waste his. He is made of firmer stuff than he looks. We learn later that he's from Donnybrook, about 200km from Perth, which, like Dad's home town near Port Said, is the lesser town to a more famous city. My father and the salesman have some things in common. Both men are hungry, both appreciate the value of a dollar and both have nothing else on today. Dad says we're interested, we just need a fair deal. He starts listing extenuating circumstances that might sway this austere salesman to our favour. They include me having a perfect driving record and being able to pay in cash today. I was suspended for speeding twice and the only thing in my wallet is an expired Medicare card. The salesman looks unconvinced. That's when Dad reveals his juiciest bait. We also have a good car for trade-in, he announces and offers the salesman a key. The salesman, eyebrows raised, takes the key and trudges outside to look at my sister's 1999 Toyota Yaris, which I've been driving for five years. A few minutes later, he returns with his manager. Dad leans over to me with a warning, that he's going to say some bullshit about what's wrong with the car. Sure enough, we're told about a 'thumping noise' emitted by the gearbox, scratches to the exterior and the age of the vehicle. They can only offer a deduction of $2,000 on the asking price. Dad scoffs and says they must be joking. The manager – a man of quieter gravity than his protege – speaks up. He tells Dad that he can see how serious we are about making a purchase, but that with all these liabilities in mind and the state of the market, he can't go any lower without losing money for the dealership. My heart drops. I turn to my father, my eyes pleading. I'm on the verge of tears. 'I'm afraid $14,500 is the best I can do, Mr Nour,' the manager says. Dad tells him that for $14,000, I will shake his hand today. This is all too much. My head feels light and there's a catch in my throat. I need a break. I go to make a cup of coffee at the courtesy De'Longhi espresso machine. When I come back, I find the salesman grinning and Dad chuckling softly. Something has changed between these two men – game recognises game. The real arbitration, however, is between Dad and the manager. The manager wearily says he can't budge further. 'It's $14,200 or nothing.' Dad turns to me seriously, with his eyes wide in a questioning stare. He has fixed the contest, but mine is the deciding vote. Will I accept the terms? I reach forward to shake the manager's hand. After a half-hour session of contract-signing and payment transactions, Dad stops on the way out, looking to see if I will say anything else. I surprise myself and ask if they can throw anything else in to sweeten the deal. Dad laughs. I drive off that day with a new car, two branded umbrellas and a feeling that I have just scored the freshest gaming console on the market and finished all my homework. This is an edited extract from How to Dodge Flying Sandals and Other Advice for Life ($29.99; Affirm Press)
Evening Standard
17 hours ago
- Health
- Evening Standard
Fiona Phillips' husband recalls heartbreaking moment she didn't recognise their son amid Alzheimer's battle
Phillips cared for her parents after both of them were also diagnosed with the condition and has made two documentaries about the disease, one in 2009 called Mum, Dad, Alzheimer's And Me, about her family's history of dementia, and My Family And Alzheimer's in 2010.
Boston Globe
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Boston Globe
‘Jaws' — the unlikely glue that binds my estranged siblings and me
One rainy day, desperate to escape a stifling, muggy hotel room where the clanky air conditioning couldn't drown out the cranky kids, or my grandfather's persistent complaints, or the needling voices of the women, Dad decided to do something. He took my mother, my 6-year-old brother, and 7-year-old me to the movies, leaving our baby sister with my grandparents. The theater was cold, dark, and quiet — everything the hotel room was not. But instead of refuge, we walked straight into 'Jaws.' Get The Gavel A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr. Enter Email Sign Up Related : Advertisement What on God's holy earth possessed our parents to buy tickets to that movie is beyond comprehension. Their only excuse was that the rating system was different then. More likely, their brains were pickled from holiday boozing. The next day, terror clung like July's humidity, so we chose the pool over the beach. But my brother and I couldn't even dip our toes in — every shadow was a dorsal fin, echoing John Williams's ominous bass. Our blue-and-yellow raft, like the Kintner boy's, sent us into hysteria. Every time Dad stepped onto the pool stairs, we screamed 'Shark!' as a warning. What finally made him dive in, I'll never know. Advertisement At 6 foot 5 inches and 250 pounds, he swam steady laps, cutting through the water with quiet power. Mesmerized, my brother and I inched toward the shallow end and perched on the edge, our pink, sunburned skin smarting against the hot turquoise tiles that separated us from the water. We watched him glide, hypnotized by his rhythm. When he got out of the water, he looked lighter, unburdened. Gone was the tense, tired man. In his place stood someone almost mythic. Then he spun a tale of Captain Ahab proportions — a fantastical story about a whale that ate sharks. The author in the hotel pool in Clearwater, Fla., the summer before she saw "Jaws." Laura Petrovich-Cheney 'Hop on and hold tight — I'm the whale that eats the sharks,' he announced, promising that, once we all got into the pool, I would be a mermaid, my brother a noble pirate, and he, our protector, the whale. Too prickly hot and desperate for relief, I slid onto his back with my legs under his arms, and my brother wrapped himself around my waist. It was the last summer we'd be young enough to accept such closeness without question — our bodies entwined in trust, unburdened by self-consciousness. Clinging to each other, we shrieked and floated across the pool's surface, swimming from the shallow end toward deeper water. With every stroke, the imagined threat lessened. Dad kicked hard, sending cooling sprays over us. With each splash, fear gave way to laughter, suspicion to relief. We approached 10 feet of water. Advertisement 'Hold on for the biggest splash of all,' Dad instructed. I leaned forward, arms wrapped around his neck. My brother tightened his grip. Dad plunged beneath the surface, carrying us into the tranquil depths where all sounds — inside our heads and in the world above — fell silent. In the suspended light of the pool, we saw there were no sharks. Terror dissolved in that slow-motion, weightless world. Our eyes wide open, we watched bubbles spiral upward and hair float like octopus tentacles. It was magic, bound up with imagination, laughter, and something that felt like love. Then, with one strong kick, we burst through the water's surface. The three of us gasped together, releasing a breath we hadn't realized we were holding. The exhilaration whooshed through the air — brief, pure, unforgettable. 'Again, Daddy Whale!' I shouted. My mother waved from a lounge chair. Even my grandparents clapped and sang, urging us to keep swimming. I don't know how long Dad carried us that day — back and forth across the pool, dipping in and out of its blue depths — but the memory remains clear: held in the fragile pause between innocence and all that would unravel later. It was a fleeting shimmer of pleasure before time and circumstances dragged the family apart. No matter how fractured we are today, 'Jaws' still ties us together. One strange, radiant moment of joy, born from fear and make-believe. And this 50th anniversary summer of 'Jaws,' I'll remember that sometimes, even the darkest waters can carry us back to something that almost feels like love.
Irish Examiner
2 days ago
- Sport
- Irish Examiner
'Cork hurling is much more than just a game — it helped me bond with my dad'
Last summer, my father was diagnosed with motor neurone disease, a progressive neurological condition that damages the motor neurones in the brain and spinal cord, leading to muscle weakness, atrophy, and eventually paralysis. It is a rare and incurable disease, well-known here in Ireland as the cause of Charlie Bird's passing. The average survival rate is typically two to five years from the onset of symptoms. Although some people live longer, many go far more quickly. Dad drove us to last year's All-Ireland hurling final. When Cork play Tipperary this Sunday in a bid to end our 20-year famine, he won't be travelling. The round trip to Croke Park would be impossible for him. It will be the first time that my brother Jonathan and I go to an All-Ireland final without our father. We suggested that the three of us stay at home to watch the game together, but dad wouldn't have it — his voice might be fading, but he still calls the shots. 'Go and shout for three,' my mother instructed. However the match goes, it will be a hard day. The recent Munster final was very difficult. When Cork beat Limerick on penalties, it was the first thing we acknowledged, that it's just not the same without our dad. That's the thing about hurling — it's more than just sport, not just a game. Dad took me to my first All-Ireland final in 1999. Cork beat Kilkenny by a point, 0-13 to 0-12. I have no idea how he managed to turn up the tickets — two for the Hill — but he did (I still have the stubs). This was before the motorway, when the drive from Dublin to Cork took you through every town and village in between. We arrived in Rathcormac to bonfires on the road — literally on the road — as thousands of Corkonians took to the streets to celebrate and welcome home the travelling fans. James's father was able to attend last year's GAA hurling final between Clare and Cork. Picture: Piaras Ó Mídheach/Sportsfile Dad told me to get out the sunroof with my flag. I'm sure my memory has embellished the scene, but when I think back, I see thousands of people, the road to Cork city barely visible through all the red and smoke. I was sat atop the car, waving my flag while dad bate the horn. And for a few moments, I felt like some king of rebel king — the world was mine. That's what culture is — it's visceral, something felt in the gut. I never chose Cork hurling, it was passed down to me. That's what a father gives a son, a sense of something greater than themselves to which they can belong — culture, their culture. And that's why sport is more than just competition, it's a sophisticated framework for masculine intimacy and the delicate choreography of connection across generational divides. The relationship between my father and I followed a typical trajectory: first, childhood admiration, then, adolescent rejection, and eventually, adult reconciliation. I was a furious young man, full of fear and confusion. Nothing seemed bearable. One night, dad asked me to come for a walk with the dog. He told me it was okay to be angry. 'Everyone goes through what you're going through,' he said. 'What matters is who you are when you come out the other side.' I said something naïve about wanting a better world for myself and for others. 'Then go out and change it,' was his response. I think about that conversation a lot. James O'Sullivan: 'Hurling helped me to open up to my father. We had conversations during hurling that we wouldn't have had otherwise.' Do fathers remember all of the little things they tell their sons, the brief, offhand comments and remarks that take on permanence, becoming rules and values that shape lives? Education has been my life, not just as a profession, but as a principle — it's how I try to do some good in the world, if only just in our small corner of it. And that personal philosophy and political belief system all started with a short conversation with my father, while walking the dog. This was back before men were allowed to talk about mental health — I'm open enough to admit that, were it not for dad, I might not be here now. We'd not have been able to have those conversations were it not for hurling. It was the thing that bonded us because it was ours and ours alone — just him and me, and later, Jonathan. Just the lads, a father and his sons. The human need for belonging finds profound expression through sporting communities. The degree to which the GAA provides social capital is not unproblematic, and local clubs can be very cliquey, anachronistic spaces. But for many people, especially those who are lost, this shared belonging creates psychological scaffolding that supports identity development, social integration, and intergenerational continuity. Eimear Ryan writes about this in The Grass Ceiling, one of the most important books ever written on gender in the context of Irish sport. Eimear explains how hurling was the vehicle through which she learned who she was, who she wanted to be. I was probably the most useless — I was certainly the laziest — player to ever wear the royal blue of St Finbarr's, and like Eimear, I often felt like an outsider, feeling the need to hide parts of myself, like a burgeoning love of literature (Eimear on the other hand is a brilliant hurler who won an All-Ireland with Tipperary). But as useless as I might have been, I loved certain aspects of my playing days, if only just pucking balls with dad and Jonathan. The father teaching his son to strike a sliotar passes on muscle memory that connects to an older Ireland, to resistance and revival — it's sport functioning as a field of cultural production, where identity is actively constructed through embodied practice. Learning to hurl isn't just about the mechanics, it requires absorbing deeper lessons about competition, failure, resilience, and, perhaps most notably for men, emotional expression. In a changing, multicultural Ireland, hurling has the potential to be a shared tradition, a common language that can weave new identities into the fabric of local life. All of this is why hurling is so important. It's not always easy for fathers and sons to express their love for each other, so hurling can act as a substitute. In the pride in one's colours, fathers and sons find a vocabulary for love that transcends words, that transcends their relationship. The coming final won't be the same without my dad. I'll never forgive Conor Leen for pulling the back off of Robbie O'Flynn last year, when dad was well enough to travel. But I also remind myself that there is no point trying to restage the past, that the best moments between father and son can never be recreated. Even if dad had been with us for the Munster final, it wouldn't have been the same — it wasn't Thurles, Mark Landers wasn't the captain, and the game wasn't won by Joe Deane (who I chose that day as my all-time favourite) when he buried Seánie McGrath's endline flick beyond Davy Fitz. So when Cork and Tipperary meet in Croke Park, it will be hard, but it will still matter, because hurling is about being part of something that was here before us and will go on long after we're all gone. Because, fundamentally, that's what hurling is — it's the way we remind ourselves that we're never alone.
Yahoo
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
‘Ridiculously Cute' Cockatoo Races Outside To Welcome Dad in Sweet Video
'Ridiculously Cute' Cockatoo Races Outside To Welcome Dad in Sweet Video originally appeared on Parade Pets. At my house, returning home from work or errands always comes with the greatest surprise. Flinging the door open, I'm always greeted by the most excited hype squad who cheers (barks), jumps, and sometimes pees a little(!), by my presence. I deserve none of that for just running to the gas station for a few minutes, and yet, that's what I get! I'm sure other dog parents agree — there's nothing like a pup's "welcome home." Compared to the nonchalant, vague acknowledgment of my existence from my cats, I thought dog greetings couldn't be topped. But then one extremely devoted Cockatoo said, "Hold my beer." Charlie Junior's love for his dad is such a beautiful gift, but it makes me wish my pets would do more of this stalker-level obsession! The waiting by the window, the countdown once he sees the car pull in, the absolute thrill of seeing Dad is unmatched. I wouldn't want to be the spare parent in this house (sorry, Mom)! Charlie and Dad's relationship is crazy strong. They're beyond bestie level and more like soulmate status. Their bond is something more than 192k TikTok fans can't get enough of, and this clip of Charlie waiting for Dad's 6 p.m. return is exactly why! As one person pointed out to Mom, "The way he immediately turns on you when he knows Dad will be home soon," and yeah, that has to sting! "I can't cope with the cuteness," another added."The absolute audacity that Dad has to work. He should be at home treating me like the totality that I am," another correct person joked. I'm sure if Charlie could say more than his vocabulary allows, he'd say as much! When Dad's home and the two boys are chillin', they love doing everything together. It doesn't even matter if Dad's napping, because Charlie's not going anywhere. The entertaining Cockatoo's favorite one-on-one time is when Dad sings so he can perform his VIP dance... and it's really that cute! I could seriously watch these two all day. It doesn't matter if it's Charlie waiting by the window for his number one guy or they're hanging out, singing and dancing — I'm here for all of it! 🐶🐾🐾 'Ridiculously Cute' Cockatoo Races Outside To Welcome Dad in Sweet Video first appeared on Parade Pets on Jul 13, 2025 This story was originally reported by Parade Pets on Jul 13, 2025, where it first appeared.
