Dad is more proud of his tan than his super-human strength

You may recall that my father is an incredible man who raised 11 kids by himself after my mum died, but since dwelling on that risks becoming sentimental, I’ve spent much of my career cynically documenting his funnier behaviours for profit. Dad heard screams and ran outside to find Darasprawled on the concrete like an upturned tortoise, his cello a shell creaking under the weight of the Volvo slowly rolling over his tiny bones. Seized by adrenaline, Dad raced to the car and heaved with his bare hands, lifting 1.2 tonnes of Swedish engineering for long enough that Dara wriggled free. My father is no stranger to emphasising sillier achievements – as the only one of us capable of taking a tan, he’s been known to brandish his browned arms in triumph over his mottled, pale children – so it’s odd, but distinctly him, to downplay such a feat.