I’m off the booze. My daughter insists that I walk her down the aisle – not vice versa

The vicissitudes of getting old are linked to the mystical innocence of childhood as one daydreams the precious time away. I’m a daydreamer par excellence, and lately I’ve been thinking non-stop about my daughter. She’s getting married this week and I’m off to London for the festivities. Solipsist that I am, it’s nice to think of others for a change. It’s the nature of prestidigitation to mix one’s self and one’s children — I’ve got one of each — and I thank my stars that there’s only one bride, as I read with amusement that three gals in Massachusetts exchanged vows although no state in America has yet to pass a law that three can get hitched. (Not to worry, it’s bound to come. And why only three?)

Yes, time passes without mercy and I think of Lolly as a baby and then as a young girl, mostly haranguing me about being an absent father. Her tirades have left no scars — I was having a good time — so I look at pictures of me holding her in my arms with love and amusement, always with a cookie in her hand, always trying to steal the spotlight from the poseur next to her acting like a respected father figure. I once wrote her a note telling her that she had the worst temper since Maria Callas, an aggressiveness that Field Marshal Hasso von Manteuffel would envy, and the intolerance of Savonarola. I finished the note by telling her that’s why I loved her as much as I do. She had it framed and asked me to repeat it at the bridal lunch. As it’s a family wedding, I include it here so more people will be warned.