Tag Archives: daddy blogs

At Seventeen


“Thank you for letting us care for your lovely daughter. She has been a pleasure to have in the house, she’s kind, polite and a gorgeous girl. We enjoyed having her.”

Tingirl is part of the Transition Year Choir at school, and this year they did an exchange programme with a school in Sweden. A lovely girl called Kajsa came to stay with us for four days in February, and in May Tingirl went to Helsingborg to stay with her and her family (our choir had to learn how to spell the name of their town, but theirs had to learn the name of our school, Coláiste Chroabh Abhann, so overall I think we came out ahead).

The words above were written by Kajsa’s mother. In four days Tingirl charmed her with her smile, with her personality, with her all-round Tingirlness.

It was lovely to hear this from someone who had never met her before. Of course we see this all the time, though we also see the slumpage days, where she will appear at about noon in huge Christmas slippers and a zebra onesie. On such days we know that she will lie on the couch and keep up with the Kardashians, who have certainly improved in looks since they used to terrorise the Enterprise in Star Trek.

Such days are part of being a teenage girl, and are few and far between with our daughter. Most days are spent with her huge collection of friends, or with her Drama Group, a close-knit team who have moved up through the classes together for eight years, and who now are at the stage where they write their own shows.

Kajsa’s mother has summed her up perfectly. She’s a pleasure to have in our house, a pleasure to have as a daughter, a joy to have as  my princess.

Tingirl is seventeen today. Happy Birthday, sweet lovely girl.

Tingirl (1)

Who’s The Daddy

SP_A0057Today is Father’s Day, and rightly so. We men deserve at least one day in the year where we have our dinner handed to us, and are free to splodge on the couch all day and watch sport (it’s just as well Mrs Tin doesn’t read this blog, since she’d probably have to be restrained at this point).

RTE have certainly tried to ensure the day is a success, as they have chosen tonight to broadcast the final ever episode of ER – the one with George Clooney, Anthony Edwards and Goran Whatshisface all returning – and wives all over the country will be suggesting to their husbands that they pop down to the pub for an hour or so, leaving them free to sit in front of the TV with a dirty big bowl of ice-cream and a dirtier, bigger grin.

The picture above shows the cards that I received from my children, and proves that they certainly can’t be accused of being hoodwinked by the blatant commercialism of the day. I remember my mum always saying on Mother’s day that she preferred stuff we made ourselves to stuff we bought, and I used to wonder was she just being nice, but I now know that she was telling us the truth. The homemade cards that I get each birthday and Father’s Day mean everything to me. (They can also occasionally provide yet another in-family joke. About five years ago Tinson1 made his card for Mrs Tin in such a hurry that he wrote “Happy Moter’s Day” on the front, and Mother’s Day has now vanished from the Tinfamily annual calendar, while Moter’s Day is in).

The cards, by the way, are arranged on a leather chair and not, as it may appear, on the arse of our pet elephant.

Anyway, I find the whole day very humbling. I am always astonished by the obvious love in the eyes of these three wonderful young people, and have no idea what I have done to deserve it. They see me as strong, protective and wise, and I see myself as anything but.

But it is also very uplifting. If these kids think I’m great then I must be doing something right.

So I’m getting what each of them wished for me on their cards.

I’m having a Happy Father’s Day.

Mrs Tinfire

This morning mrs-doubtfireMrs Tin, her mum and her sisters headed off to her cousin’s wedding.

In Madrid.

So I’ve taken tomorrow and all of next week off to be a househusband.

There was a time in our lives, back when the Tinkids were really young, when this would have been a frightening proposition. They could be really hard work, and on the (thankfully rare) occasions when all three cried at once we’d feel outnumbered at an almost Texans-at-the-Alamo level. Mrs Tin spent years rushing about managing different pick-up times, driving them to different parties, remembering what different activities they were expected to be prepared for on any given day, while also finding time to shop, cook and clean.

Now the youngest is twelve, they can awaken/feed/dress/wash/wipe themselves, and the task is not nearly as challenging. Mrs Tin occupies her time by being on the Board of Management of two schools (one of which we’ve never even had kids at), and thus spends large parts of her days at meetings, typing e-mails or organising fund-raising. Since I am expected to do none of these things during the coming week my morning routine will effectively end at ten past nine when I return from driving Tingirl to her school (the lads go to theirs by bus), and from then till she returns at 3.30 I will have nothing to do but stare in bewilderment at the controls on the washing machine, assuming that I can find it.

So I’m going to watch Loose Women and Oprah. I’m going to listen to Gerry Ryan and Joe Duffy (I might even ring in). I’m going to go for coffee, even though (a) I don’t know anyone around here to go with, and (b) I don’t drink coffee. I’m going to take up pilates or, if they look too strenuous, just the one pilate.

I’m going to wear my pyjamas for the school run.

My Little Girl, Pink & White as Peaches & Cream is She

daddys-girlBack in June I wrote a long piece about Tinson1 when he got his first part-time job. The following month I wrote one about Tinson2 when he headed off on his own to the Gaeltacht. The order they were born in dictates that Tingirl would be left till last, but that’s not the only reason. The fact is that she’s the hardest to write about, because she’s the one I know least. But she’s twelve today, so it’s time to try.

I know nothing about girls. Mrs Tin will back me up on this. Part of the reason is that I have one brother and no sisters. (Actually, that’s not strictly true anymore, since my dad got married again 3 years ago and the Wicked Stepmother brought four more sons into the family as her dowry). Having had no sisters in the house growing up has meant that I’ve found it almost imposssible to know what Tingirl is thinking at any stage in her life. All I know is that she thinks I’m wonderful, and I’ve no idea why.

The news that she was on the way came as, well, a surprise. When we first found out that Mrs Tin was pregnant Tinson2 was only about ten months old, and we were so mortified that we told nobody for months. My brother’s wife suspected, and kept asking him to grill me about it, which he wouldn’t. She also kept asking Mrs Tin pointed questions about whether she was still going to the gym, which she kept saying she was. In the end I said we’d better tell her before the gym sued us, since giving the impression that going there gave you a figure like the one Mrs Tin was developing was unlikely to do their business any good.

Part of the reason we were so concerned was that it was brother’s wife who minded the Tinsons while Mrs Tin was at work, and we were afraid that she’d say she couldn’t mind three along with her own three. Sure enough this happened, so Mrs Tin had to quit work for good. Not only that, but I needed the car in the job I had at the time, so we’d to fork out for a second one for her. While all of this seemed disastrous at the time, it changed our family life for the better, and oddly helped me get even busier, as I was no longer tied to child & wife -collecting.

We were old hands at birthing at this stage, and Tingirl was born at a respectable mid-afternoon time on the exact day she was due. The Tinsons adored her from the start, Tinson2 and she became like twins, and everything was good. I do remember one scary day when all three of them were crying at different things at the same time, and we realised for the first time that we were outnumbered, but generally everything was great.

When a girl has two older brothers she can either go the tomboy route, matching them in rough play and manly pursuits, or she can go the girly route, twisting them round her finger with her cuteness. This is the option Tingirl selected, though she could still hold her own if she needed to. When she was about one she was in her granny’s, and her similarly aged but bigger girl cousin tried to pull a toy she was holding away from her. “Now don’t hurt little Tingirl,” said my brother-in-law, kindly but also slightly condescendingly. “Don’t worry about her,” I said, “she’s well used to having an older brother at the other end of whatever toy she wants to play with, so your daughter’s WAY out of her league”. Sure enough, after thirty seconds the big cousin was pink in the face tugging two-handedly away at one end of the toy, while at the other end Tingirl was holding on with just her left hand, never taking her eyes off the TV. It might still be my proudest daddy moment ever.

princess-graceIn the same way that salmon are born instinctively knowing the route back home, I believe girls are born knowing all about princesses, ponies and Barbie. At the age of about three, Tingirl was in her baby-seat in the back of Mrs Tin’s car, and Mrs Tin scolded her about something. After about a minute she suddenly burst out sobbing “I’m..not..going.. to..be..Daddy’s…..princess”. It’s not an expression we’d ever used. Where do girls get this stuff from?

Anyway, she’s grown up sweet and funny, and her brothers would do anything for her. I’ve told the story of how Tinson2 stepped between her and a snarling dog in Kusadasi. Tinson1 and she give an impression of quiet indifference toward each other, but on another holiday in Malta she returned crying to our table at the pool because a bigger boy had knocked her down and broken her necklace. We comforted her and then realised Tinson1 had vanished, and I found him in the games room with the guy up against the wall by the neck (oh, I’ve just realised why he wants to join the FCA).

She has a generally terrific relationship with Mrs Tin, and the two of them revel in being the two girls in a house of three men. They had a Mamma Mia night last Saturday, where we were all ordered to sod-off to other rooms in the house. They watch Strictly Come Dancing together. They go off on shopping trips. Very occasionally though they quarrel, and I see a brief flash of very real anger in Tingirl’s eyes, which shows that the relationship will be as challenging as any other Mother/Daughter one in the years to come.

Like, whatEVER

Like, whatEVER

As I said, she’s twelve today, and I find her even more mysterious and scary as she starts to develop. She speaks in an Amonda Dort accent that, like, SO didn’t come from us. She’s got er, chest bumps now, and I don’t know where to look. Her wall is covered in pictures of young guys from bands & shows I’ve never heard of. She’ll be starting to “get off” with boys soon, & though I said in yesterday’s post that guns are bad, just typing that sentence has given me the sudden urge to buy one.

I said something about this in a comment on Jo’s blog about five months ago, and this was Jo’s reply:

“Tinman, you sound fraught! I must think of a good book for you to read. ‘Promiscuities’ by Naomi Wolfe is wonderful, but I don’t know if its reassuring for dads (it’s not what it sounds like, just a study of growing up a girl).

If I may, you are the man she gets to practice her femininity on. You’re the safe training wheel of masculinity, in an ideal world. So if you make her feel loved, cherished, safe and worthwhile, respected and important, she’ll probably feel those things about herself, and choose men who do the same. Listen to her. And give her insights into what it’s like to be a man!”

5 years time?

5 years time?

I can tell you straight out that if she ever practices her femininity on me, I’ll be in the pub within thirty seconds. It’s what I’ve always done when Mrs Tin practices hers, and I see no need to change a winning formula. It was good and helpful advice from Jo though, (who I hadn’t even met at that stage) and I have to admit I’m kind of looking forward to the teenage years to come. No matter what they might bring ->.

So Happy Birthday Tingirl. You are – of course – my Princess. And always will be.

Oops ….

Tingirl (my eleven year-old daughter, here making her debut in these annals) goes to drama classes at weekends, presumably because she believes she’s not enough of a drama queen already. These run on a Saturday from 3 till 4.30.

Last week Mrs Tin headed off at ten to three, announcing that she was leaving Tingirl off and would then come straight back, as she has something-or-other she was going to do (no, I was listening). Somewhere along the way though she changed her mind, because she hung around in Bray for the hour-and-a-half instead, picked Tingirl up and then went shopping with her.

Somewhere around 5.30 it finally sank in to me that a person who was supposed to be back at ten past three was now two and a half hours late, so I texted “Dude, where the fuck?” to Mrs Tin. Straight away my phone rang, with Mrs Tin displayed as the caller. “Hi,” I said.

“Hi Dad”, said Tingirl. “Mum says we’ll be home in ten minutes”.

I knew straight away what had happened. Mrs Tin was driving, got the message alert, saw it was me and handed the phone to Tingirl, saying “see what your Dad wants”.

Sure enough, when they got home Mrs Tin confirmed that she had given the phone to Tingirl to read the message.

“And what did she say about it?” I asked.

“She said ‘Dad wants to know where you are'”, said Mrs Tin.

At this point Tingirl, who was home all of two minutes now so was already buried in a book, glanced up, flashed me a smile as brief and bright as a lighthouse lamp, and went back to her reading.

It’ll remain our little secret.

The Day Before You Came

This day 17 years ago was a Thursday.

I don’t remember very much about the early part of it. I know that I went to work. I know that I arranged a meeting for the following morning, saying with a laugh “well, of course I’ll have to cancel it if I’m in Holles Street Hospital tomorrow”. I also know that I’d a lot of trouble the following morning cancelling said meeting, as in those days Mobile Phones were a rarity (and were “mobile” only in the same way that a skip is mobile, i.e., that you can hoist it onto a truck and cart it away).

I know that I was still self-employed in those days, and that my business was still only developing, and that we were always broke. The country had been banjaxed economically for years at that stage, and was just beginning the recovery that would eventually spawn the years of mad excess.

Us back then

Us back then

I know that our own lives were very different. Six years into our married life, Mrs Tin and I had still no TV. This had begun as a type of joke, when we realised one day that we were six weeks married and hadn’t got one, because on the few occasions when we were home we were doing stuff to the house (some of which is still not finished). We decided for a laugh to see how long we could last without one. Since we were both working, and both still playing sport, it turned out not to be difficult at all. We read a lot, listened to the radio a lot, and the time just flew by.

But now we knew everything was about to change, though not for nine days yet, because that was Tinson1’s due date. Indeed, so sure were we that nothing was about to happen that on the Wednesday night I went to the pub to watch a football match (it was surprising how much TV we actually got to see) and had far too much drink to have been able to drive if we’d had to suddenly go to the hospital. And this day should have been exactly the same.

And yet… when I got home that evening I was sending a card to a friend of mine who’d moved away. I put on it “from Tinman and Mrs Tin” and then suddenly had to resist the urge to add “and Tinson1 (born 8/11/91)”.  I thought, “weird”, and then went off to the room that I used then as a study back then, when our Bedroom/People Ratio was in surplus instead of deficit.

At that time I was in an amateur drama group, and each year we’d put on a Pantomime at Christmas. Most of the cast were so talented that I’d noticed that no matter how crap the script we’d bought they turned it into a terrific show, so about a few years previously I’d had a go at writing it myself. They took it, messed with, smacked it around and made it a success. After that it was taken for granted that I would write the script (hey, I was a writer-in-residence, how cool is that), and this year’s was now very much overdue.

I had it very nearly finished, so on this night I added the last few bits, cut out some of the very worst jokes ( a talent I must develop again) and around half-past ten finally declared myself done. Since my mind was now buzzing I reckoned I’d no chance of sleeping, so I decided I’d go for one pint to calm myself down. Mrs Tin was in the bath so I went in and told her my plan.

pregnant-womanAs I was walking out the front door I remember thinking “my God, she’s HUGE – she’s twice the size she was this morning” (it’s only when women are 8.999 months pregnant that you’re allowed to even think that sentence). I got into the car – remember, I was only going for one drink, and it was 10 minutes to closing time – but when I got to the end of the road I turned left, away from the pub and drove to the garage instead, where I filled the car with petrol.

the-storkMrs T seemed surprised that I was back so soon, but she was already in bed and nearly asleep. I got in beside her and lay, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting.

And at 2.30 a.m the wait ended when she suddenly sat bolt upright. Our life as we knew it was over, and a whole new amazing adventure was about to begin.

Tinson1 is seventeen tomorrow.

The Dog ate my Homework

Mrs Tin and I were in the car last night (on the way to see the Bond film, which I enjoyed) when a cop car shot past us at an amazing speed.

“Of course, this is the weekend they’re having their big clampdown, with super-checkpoints and stuff,” said Mrs Tin.

“No, that was last weekend, for the Bank Holiday,” I said.

“No, this is the Bank Holiday weekend, isn’t it? ” said she.

“Nope. Remember last Monday? I wasn’t at work?”

“Oh crap,” she said, “I’ve told Tinson1 he has Monday off.”

My first impulse was to tell her to make sure I’m there when she tells him it’s not in fact a day off. Once kids come along and ruin your social life carry your life onto a new and more fulfilling level then little treats like that are the only fun left to you.

But then I thought, imagine if we didn’t tell him, and let him take Monday off. If he went in on Tuesday and was asked where he’d been the day before, and replied “my Mum thought it was a Bank Holiday”, surely they’d believe him.

After all, you wouldn’t have the nerve to make that up.

The Tin Soldier

Tinson1is joining the FCA, or the Reserve Defence Forces as it is now apparently known.

If ever I needed proof that he is not my clone, no matter how much he looks like me, then this is it. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do less. Well, be trapped in a lift for two hours with the elevator music stuck on “Achey Breaky Heart” , perhaps, but nothing else.

Indeed, the FCA came campaigning to our class when I was in my final year at school. It wasn’t a great success. The guy decided to appeal to the macho man within us. “The training is really tough,” he said. “Wow”, we repiled. “You’ll get to drive really big motorbikes,” he said. “Oooooh,” we replied.

Looking at their website now, it’s clear that they’ve upped their game since my time when it comes to recruitment skills. The introduction says:

“What did you get up to last weekend? Well, if it involved getting together with a 100 or so good friends and firing semi-automatic Steyr AUG rifles or being part of an artillery gun crew, then you already know about the unique challenges and attractions of the Reserve Defence Forces. If not, maybe you should check it out.”

Even my class would have been impressed by that. Anyway, Tinson1certainly was, and so a couple of days ago Mrs Tin had to drive him to Wicklow town to go through the induction process. The other Tinkids and I stood at the window and saluted as the car backed out of the driveway. (When he returned Tinson1informed us solemnly that there are very strict rules about when and whom you salute, and was informed equally solemnly that we weren’t in the FCA, and that we‘d salute whomever we wanted to, whenever we wanted to, thank him very much). We have continued to poke fun at him ever since, with comments about tennis-ball haircuts and potato-mountain-peeling, and will carry on doing so right up until the time when he learns to use the rifle.

What do I think of it all? I don’t want to stand in the way of him trying anything he wants to. I honestly believe that when he actually tries it (he can’t start for another five weeks, till he’s 17) he won’t like it, and that it will be a lesson well learned. If he does like it, and stays involved, well, it will keep him fit (one of his obsessions), teach him about discipline, and the importance of teamwork.

And we do need a Defence Force. And other countries do have National Service. And the youth of these countries do seem to emerge more respectful and mature.

And yet… I hate all the macho crap involved with organisations like this. I’m sad that the website had to focus on the opportunity to fire rifles, rather than the chance to serve the public, as its catchcry. I’m worried that he’ll come into contact with people joining because of the lure of aggression and bullying rather than the excitement and cameraderie. And, in the end, damn it, I just don’t like guns.

Or perhaps I’m just sad because it’s one more proof that his childhood is virtually over, and that he’s becoming a man.

Think of the Children

I watched an “Al Murray – Pub Landlord” gig on TV the other night. At one point he talked about when his first child was born. He said he felt pride, humility “and a burning urge to hang all paedophiles whereas before I hadn’t given them a second thought.”

How right he is. Having children immediately ends one’s laissez-faire attitude to the world, and makes one more right wing than Adolf Hitler.

I reached adulthood in the early eighties, when the posturing of Reagan and Andropov made nuclear war seem more probable than possible. I remember a friend of mine pointing to the top of her forehead and saying “I hope the bomb lands right here” and us all agreeing with her. We didn’t mind dying, we just didn’t want the radiation.

All that as changed now that we have become parents. I hate warmongers with a passion. I hate people whose greed, lust for power or mistaken religious beliefs might endanger my children.

Where once I tolerated dope smoking, I how hate all drug takers and sellers, as they might lead my children down that path.

In fact, I now hate: paedophiles, drug dealers, vandals, people who can’t handle their drink, drunk drivers, speeding drivers, motor bikers, smokers, bullies (whether bullied themselves or not), racists (my daughter has a little black friend and the idea that anyone would insult this child is sickening), people who think the laws about fireworks don’t apply to them, any eejit who’d buy a quad bike for their kids, laser pens, several species of dog-owner (people who let their dogs shit in the street, people who let their dogs bark at or run at people, people who own ridiculous breeds of dogs like rotweilers), Arsenal (nothing to do with my kids, just don’t like them), middle class gits who take soft drugs, SUV drivers (not because of the environment, because SUVs are killing machines), bad teachers, people who obtain drink for children, anyone who says people who commit random acts of violence deserves a second chance, and the makers of South Park.

In short, everybody.

Boy meets Gael(tacht)

Another milestone this week. Tinson2 has gone to the Gaeltacht for 3 weeks.

Tinson2 is thirteen. While any parent will love and defend their children to the ends of the earth, most of us know what they are really like deep down. And my son is the sweetest person on this planet.

He was the grumpiest, angriest baby of the three of them. It used to bother me that he didn’t smile when you appeared in front of his cot the way the eldest had, but simply held his hands up, demanding to picked up so he could get on with his busy day of crying, turning his face away from food and sticking out his lower lip. Like his elder brother he made no effort to walk, but would rocket along the floor (we have wooden floors) on his butt. Indeed, he was even better than his brother at it, as he would use one hand as a paddle and sort of flip himself along, with his bum practically coming off the floor as he galumphed along. He did try to walk one day. He got up, toddled one or two steps, then obviously thought to himself “sod this for a game of pokemon, I can move twice as fast on my arse” and went back to the backside shuffle. It was only when we were teaching his younger sister to walk, getting her to stumble along between two of us kneeling about five feet apart, that he got up and joined in, walking beside her & encouraging her.

Because by then the miracle had already occurred. He had become his sister’s great mate. To say we were terrified of what his reaction to the new baby would be was putting it mildly. He was just 18 months old, surly, often angry, and all the worst horror stories of children trying to hurt younger siblings were in our heads as my wife sat at home with our new arrival while I collected him from my sister-in-law’s. I got home and carried him into the sitting room where the moses basket (God, I couldn’t remember there what the thing was called, how quickly you forget) held centre stage. “This is your new baby sister Susan” we said. He knelt beside the basket and put his hand gently on the blanket. “Soo-soo”, he said, with a big smile on his face. I still have the photos (oh, I wish I knew enough about all this stuff to be able to publish them) of the whole thing – him in his big outdoor one piece coat-thingy, hair all sweaty because of the heat in the room, with a huge grin on his face.

And from that second on they were like twins – absolutely inseparable. I’ve already spoken about how Tinson1 became an only child again, and it’s as good as true.

Tinson2 did have middle child syndrome, though, which I realised even before I knew such a thing was a recognised problem. Older child knew more than he did, so there was no point trying to compete on knowledge, and younger child was more cute, so there was no point trying to be babyish. He developed into a child almost desperate to do eveything right, having seemingly decided that if he couldn’t be the clever child or the adorable child, he could at least be the good child. Every time he did anything wrong, like spill a drink, he would dissolve into floods of tears and say “I’m sorry” over and over again. I sure people who saw us when we were out must have thought that we beat him regularly for mistakes at home.

So this little bundle of fears and worries, who spent all his time with a far younger playmate, headed off to school. As if things weren’t bad enough for him, his April birthday meant that it was borderline as to which year he would start, and by starting him in the earlier of the two possible years he was one of the youngest in the class, continuously going to friends’ sixth birthday parties before he himself had his fifth. Occasionally he would get teased about how babyish he was, and how quick to get upset, and would arrive home in tears.

The great thing, though, is that he did have friends. His time spent with his younger sister had by now given him a kind, caring nature that couldn’t help but shine through. (I still remember how we met a barking dog on the street in Kusadasi, and how he immediately stood in front of his sister.) He was warm, helpful, considerate and, by now, very funny, and quickly established a group of close little friends. He still worried a lot about what people thought of him, and still hated to look babyish, but this grew out of him in time. One evening at the age of about ten he announced that he had to get a photograph of himself for some poster they were putting up at school. He went through a load of old pictures and eventually found one of him at the age of about two, with a baseball hat backwards on his head, and those thick baby socks on his feet. “I’ll have this one,” he said.

He finished national school and has just completed his first year in secondary. Again, he seemed so much younger and smaller than all the others on the first day. None of his friends from the BSP were going to the same school, yet in no time at all he was part of a new little group of closely knit friends. They all went to their first disco last month, so again the house stinks of Lynx (his elder brother has graduated to Lacoste), but it was more a rite of passage thing I think than any serious attempt at getting off with women (I may be the most naive parent on the planet for all I know). He had astounded us all, a family for whom changing a light-bulb counts as DIY, by taking wood-work and metalwork, and our house now contains a key-hook, a letter-rack, a tortoise, a toothbrush holder, a wooden ship, a minature sliothar and a metal shovel that he has made over the course of the year. He bought a second-hand Scalextric set at a school fair and wired it up himself. He dug out an old Nintendo 64 that his brother used to have and worked out how to fix it. I sometimes thinks he was accidently switched at birth.

And now the Gaeltacht. Interestingly, he didn’t want to go to the one his brother has gone to for the last three years, but once his brother said he wasn’t going (he has a girlfriend now) he was quite happy to go there. Again, he seemed too young, sitting all on his own on the coach with his head barely visible at the window, but apparently the older ones were discussing whether the eldest son would be coming. “Are you talking about Tinson 1?” he piped up, “because I’m his brother.”

He seems to have no fears anymore. He is sweet, kind, thoughtful and almost always good-tempered. He has a very dry, and very funny, sense of humour.

He’s just great.