2003-07-23 - 2:27 p.m.

I often � well, for the first time just now, anyway � wonder how I might be different had my father had pursued a profession with certain criminal undertones. What if he�d been, say, a shady backstreet bookmaker or unscrupulous boxing promoter, forever involved in covert deals that took place in seedy back rooms and would transfer substantial amounts of unmarked, used notes this way and that?

I can just imagine my early days as a young boy spent running errands for him, darting through puddle-strewn pavements on days off school with a sweaty brown package in my hand for a gentleman called �Uncle� Frankie. He�d relieve me of it with a fond smile and pinch my cheek with his big fingers that smelled of cheap cigars. Then he�d send me on my way with small change for toffees and some advice about me staying away from the ladies that I would laugh at, pretending to understand. Perhaps I�d be allowed to tear up betting slips, or fetch someone�s gloves for them, hold the spit bucket, that kind of thing.

As time went on, I would be a familiar face among the desperate but friendly punters watching the horses or amidst the pasty toughs, who always seemed to be one fight away from the big time, but were back the next week, throwing tired punches at the frayed punchbags. I would be marked out as someone learning the ropes and not, say, beaten into a bloody pulp in the street for no reason. As a teenager I�d be given increasingly responsible jobs, counting out winnings, passing on messages, sobering up Bomber Brindle thirty minutes before seconds out, etc.

I�d have learned to handle myself in tricky spots, diffusing dangerous situations with my ready wit that could easily turn nasty. I might get a bit cocky sometimes, but if someone decided to try and teach me a lesson they�d be restrained by the others, who�d say things like �Leave him, he�s a good kid really��

Sadly my dad is a chemistry teacher, though he did let me play with a Bunsen burner once.