Today is Father's Day. So I'm taking a break from Machiavelli to say this:

My father is a wonderful man. A wonderful, brilliant, awe-inspiring man.

He is laid-back, prioritised, unregretful, full of life. I try to emulate him. I feel bad when I don't live up to him. I feel terrible when I disappoint him, in a way that just doesn't happen with my mother. My mother rants, raves, and has to order me multiple times to do something. My father need only ask, or even merely suggest, and I will leap to do it.

I am my father's fourth child, my mother's first. I am my mother's only child, but merely my father's youngest. He always respects me. He is always assured of my ability to think and act in a sensible manner. He is the source of a great deal of my own self-confidence, both consciously and unconsciously. He is warmth and stability and comfort. He is the rock upon which the edifice of my life is built.

I love you, Dad. Just wanted you to know that.