Hardeep Singh Kohli: Daughters mourn father who made ultimate sacrifice

THERE'S something special about being a father, and something very special about being the father of a daughter.

I have felt this way for the last 10 years, two months and 21 days, ever since I first held in my arms my newborn baby girl. I'd had a son some five years earlier and I love him as completely as any father loves his son. The father-son relationship is one of strength, a bond that sees the older man gradually pass the baton of manhood onto his younger, more virile offspring. I have been experiencing this component of fatherhood for some years now: the manhood and virility seemed to have been successfully passed on, together with a couple of pairs of expensive Japanese jeans, a pair of really nice Adidas trainers and quite a lot of my record collection.

But the father-daughter relationship is one built on fragility, the sweetest of fragility. We watch them grow and develop and blossom into young women, knowing full well that they will leave us and make another man the centre of their life. Yet we know that we will always be their daddy, always be there for them, always love them. Daughters are a blessing.

I grew up in a culture where daughters were a burden, a hindrance. Punjabis are notorious for their exacting demands in matters of dowry, and girls were always seen as a financial drain on the family. In an attempt to control the number of daughters born, the macabre practice of foeticide occurred in north India. As soon as some parents had confirmation that the unborn child was not a boy the pregnancy was terminated, sometimes in a brutal, back-street way.

So extreme was the practice that today, in parts of the Punjab, the gender difference has become so skewed that there are 25% fewer women than men.

I find this deeply appalling. I look at my own daughter and imagine her not being here. How poor my life would be, how lacking in colour and laughter and joy. My daughter is my blessing.

Why should I choose this of all weeks to reflect on the inexplicable beauty of daughters to their fathers? Because of Senior Aircraftman Gary Thompson, who died serving his country in Afghanistan. A successful businessman, Aircraftman Thompson was the 51-year-old father of five daughters. He chose at his stage in life to offer the same freedoms his daughters have enjoyed to the women of Afghanistan. He lost his life doing so. I have nothing but admiration for a man who is so proud to be the father of daughters. I have nothing but sympathy for those daughters now left to mourn their father.

Are Scots paving the way?

I spent a couple of days in Pembrokeshire last week. I was in St Davids, the United Kingdom's smallest city. I have a lot of time for Wales and the Welsh. There are many parallels between them and the Scots – the sense of nationhood, self-identity, the pride in our respective cultures. Yet there are two very marked and highly significant differences between us and them. The Welsh have managed to protect their native language with great success; yet it is the Scots that came out the winner in the devolution debate: we got a Parliament, they were fobbed off with a glorified talking shop called an Assembly.

Having spent a lot of time in Wales of late, witnessing the urban regeneration of Cardiff and the re-birth of BBC Wales and the independent television sector in the city, I can't work out why the Welsh haven't exactly busted a gut pushing for a more meaningful democratic representation.

There have been moves to give their Assembly more powers, but it has very much been a softly-softly approach. Perhaps our wily Celtic cousins are biding their time, letting the Scots fight the battle for independence, softening up the Union before they, the Welsh, step in and claim their sovereignty. Cynical? Me?

Pudding it mildly, comfort food is offally good

There has been an upside to the wintry weather of the last few weeks. It has justified my foray into the kitchen to cook some of my favourite comfort food. Ordinarily I would put my suet away in early March, leaving it until the chill winds of October required its warming, rich textures. But suet in hand, last week I spent the best part of four hours constructing and cooking a steak and onion pudding. Delicious. I can think of few things more warming, more rib-stickingly delicious than a pudding that has steamed away for hours on end, filling the kitchen with its promise of tender, melt-in-the-mouth meat and delicious oniony gravy. I have in the past included the kidneys, not an offal to everyone's taste. Once, wondering why nobody makes steak and liver pudding, I decided to try one. Four and a half hours later as I chewed on plasticised liver I realised why no one had bothered. I have dabbled with ale and Guinness gravies respectively, and have even tossed a few oysters in. I feel in the world of the steamed savoury pudding there is little I have left to try. The cardinal rule, however, and I really should know better, is not to assume that three and a half hours of steaming is enough when the recipe states quite clearly that the pudding should steam for at least five hours. The meat wasn't melt in the mouth. It was tasty enough, but not quite perfect. The suet crust was delicious, however. One day I shall learn the virtue of kitchen patience.

The post office that refuses to accept male

Overheard conversation:

Man in shop to beautiful Latvian shop assistant:

Man Go on. Come and have a coffee with me.

Latvian Shop Assistant I can't...

Man A cup of coffee won't kill you.

Latvian Shop Assistant But I have a boyfriend already...

Man But a cup of coffee...

Latvian Shop Assistant I'm sorry. This little post office is very busy.

Man Sorry?

Latvian Shop Assistant This little post office is very busy.

Man What are you talking about?

Latvian Shop Assistant This is what we say in Latvia when we are in a relationship.

Man You say your post office is busy?

Latvian Shop Assistant Little post office.

Man Like a sub post office?

Latvian Shop Assistant What is a sub post office.

Man Never mind....