Friday evenings were always when dad went fishing. It was a standing joke for us kids back then.

“Where you been Dad?” we’d squeal excitedly the moment he walked back in the door.

“Fishing, of course!” he’d laugh, the faint fetor of whisky clinging lightly to his breath. Then he’d dramatically whip out fish ‘n’ chip suppers from the local chippie and wink conspiratorially at Mum.

I loved my dad and was his son in so many ways. Even then, as an eleven year old, everyone would say how alike we were with our cheeky smiles and glinting eyes.

Then one Friday, without warning, Dad went fishing and never came back.

Later that night mum got a call and it turned out he’d been fishing in a different way. Dad had run off with a girl half his age; the girl who worked behind the counter of the local chippie.

Mum was devastated and my sisters would have nothing more to do with him. They’d refer to his girlfriend as Fish Face and would blank him when he came round to pick me up every other Saturday. I guess being older I didn’t want to take sides. He was still my dad after all.

Rather ironically, faced with keeping an eleven year old boy entertained every other Saturday, my dad started taking me fishing. He was never much of a fisherman really. I guess he just saw it as a chance to talk man-to-man with me without any other interruptions.

“I never meant to hurt your mum,” he said once as we looked out at the lake, chewing on our bacon sandwiches. “I just can’t resist women. Maybe I was just born with infidelity genes.”

I’d always squirm and grew to hate those fishing weekends.

But I kept going.

I was my father’s son after all.

Shaking the memories from my mind I look back at Tracy as she steps seductively out of her dress.

“So where have you told your wife you are this evening?”

I smile momentarily and then reply, “Gone fishing.”