Uncle Dave

Uncle Dave has the undivided attention of the children; they sit cross legged on the carpet in their pyjamas, facing him with their chins cradled in their hands. They know he has stories and gifts, eagerly waiting for anything on offer.
Dave arrived late last night in his typical unannounced style, with the usual small overnight bag, duty free gin and carton of cigarettes. His arrival at our home is always welcome as he holds the honorary position of god father to our youngest.
Sitting comfortably on the sofa with long legs stretched out in front of him, he is telling stories about flying adventures in New Zealand and Borneo. Rummaging through his bag, he produces, as if on queue, carefully thought out gifts for each member of our family.
In the middle of an animated story, reminiscing about an aerial escapade that he and I once had way back, I notice his enthusiasm for flying remains. I could easily be listening to a much younger man speak, and only the sun degradation of his Caucasian complexion and bulges of excess give away his true middle age status.
He and I, and a dog named Mindy once flew an aeroplane under the Auckland harbour bridge, an action so preposterous, that thankfully now days nobody ever believes us. He never really was a snappy dresser in younger years and now proves that some things don’t change at all with time. I am happy with the impression that his dress isn’t likely to change either, as it is part of who my old friend is. In respect of my house proud wife, well travelled shoes lie beside toes poking out of clean socks, revealing some time since an earnest manicure. He is speaking, using a joking manner that makes his speech cheerful and exciting to listen to. Smiling as he speaks, he reveals a neat row of yellowed teeth, also part of his character.
We have no idea how long Uncle Dave will stay and are afraid to ask in case it’s too short. Our house will be his home for whatever duration he desires.