Back in July 1970, the British Commonwealth Games descended upon Edinburgh, Scotland. Naturally, the BBC needed to cover it, so they tapped my dad for the job. Now, Dad was a BBC Sound Engineer, but he was decidedly not a lover of sports. Fortunately, he wasn't going into the athletic wilderness alone; he was road-tripping up north with his good mate and cameraman, Clive Stevens.

At the time, home base for us was Harrow in London. My mum was always the master of psychological preparation, a real pioneer in the art of "visualization." Whenever a big change was brewing, like moving houses, she’d sit us down and paint a vivid picture: “Now, the new school will be different, you’ll make lovely new friends, etc.” She liked to make sure our young minds were thoroughly braced for impact

Which brings us to Dad's return.

Apparently, while packing for Scotland, Dad managed to forget his razor. And being a man of ultimate efficiency (or just pure laziness), rather than walking to a shop to buy a new one, he simply decided to grow a beard

When he finally rolled back into Harrow, he looked like a completely different man. But thanks to Mum’s elite visualization training, we were ready for the shock. We didn't blink an eye at the sudden face-fuzz

In fact, the mood during the homecoming reunion was so incredibly jolly that it seemed like the perfect time to drop some news. Someone casually pointed out that while he was away, I had accidentally broken a window

And you know what? It worked. Swept up in the post-trip euphoria and distracted by his own brand-new facial hair, Dad completely waved it away like it was nothing

Conclusion

Looking back, I owe a massive debt of gratitude to the 1970 Commonwealth Games, the Scottish lack of razor sales, and my mum’s mental coaching. Without them, I probably would have been grounded until 1971. It turns out a father’s sudden reinvention as a rugged Scotsman is the perfect smoke screen for a little domestic property damage