‘What you are talking about is freedom. It’s being the centre of your own universe, giving yourself the licence to do what you like, say what you like, go where you like, fuck who you like, without a thought to the consequences for anyone but yourself.
‘Maybe you’ve done that for long enough, Oz. If you want to continue down that road, now that you’re rich and famous, the opportunities to indulge yourself in such pleasures will be endless. But compared to the love that flows into you from your children, when you come home at night and sit them in your lap, the rewards of such a life are ashes, just ashes.
‘What you’re afraid of, son, is of finding out about yourself. You’re asking yourself, and now me, whether if you choose family life, you’ll be able to stay the course. I’m not a fucking fortune teller; some do, some don’t. In my judgement, I’d say that you and Susie will make a go of it. Still, as you and I both know, nothing in life is certain but death and taxes, and a skilled accountant can avoid a good chunk of the latter.
‘The last couple of years have made you a fatalist, Oz. They’ve developed a side in you that was latent, but lurking, before things went sour on you. And along the way, you’ve lost your belief in your own inherent goodness.
‘Well, I haven’t. Trust me if you don’t trust yourself, and do what I would do if I was standing in your shoes right now.’
I looked into my Dad’s coal fire, and for some reason I thought of wee Anna Chin, and her bowl of cherries. Maybe it is, I thought. Maybe life is just that.
I leaned over my father as he sat in his big comfy chair, and for the first time in around twenty-five years, I kissed him on the cheek. Then I climbed into my nice, shiny Mercedes and headed off to Glasgow to find out for myself whether, indeed, it is.