I had recorder in school and piano lessons once a week after school.
I ended up playing truant and missing the lessons my parents were paying for.
Mum isn't interested in music and dad listened but never played.
When (inevitably) they found out what I'd been up to, I knew to fear the wrath of my mother.
It was with a certain bewildered relief therefore that the loving, gentle man my father always was, decided to handle the disciplinary hearing. He asked why I bunked off lessons when I clearly loved music. I told him yes but not that music.
Two days later he came home with an electric guitar he'd seen advertised on the buy and sell notice board at work. He waited until he saw my bloody tattered finger tips after a few weeks of Bert Weedon or somesuch, and organised lessons with a young guy over the road.
Oh and he built me my first amp out of an old radiogram.
It wasn't just the single most important event in my teenage years, the start of a life long passion, but it was, and remains, the most wonderful inspiration for how to be a parent I could ever hope to achieve.
I miss him so much, and I don't think he had any idea just what he'd done for me.