Dagg of a dad

In a new memoir about her relationship with her father, Lorin Clarke reflects on how John Clarke was just as funny as a family man as he was on television.

- MARK BROATCH

In the days following John Clarke’s death in 2017, his elder daughter, Lorin, went to his city postbox to clear his mail. As usual, it was stuffed to the gills with letters and envelopes, books and magazines. John was an enthusiastic correspondent, often exchanging letters with family and friends in New Zealand. He also bought endless books and maps, subscribed to a stack of periodicals such as the London Review of Books, the New Yorker, The Oldie, The Spectator and Private Eye, and received many unsolicited scripts and tickets to red-carpet events he never went to.

When Lorin got back to her car, she saw that one large envelope was addressed to her. It contained a ring binder from her rural primary school. Written on the spine in Biro were the words: How to return a named, sealed envelope, by John Clarke.

Excursions or other school requests all asked parents to return the attached permission slip, and the money, in a named, sealed envelope. The binder was full of these envelopes.

The first one, written in John’s careful handwriting, reads simply:

Lorin Clarke’s book club money in a named, sealed envelope, as you might expect.

Others read:

Lorin Clarke’s book club money in a  nominated, fixed receptacle. Lorin Clarke’s music money for one ticket

for her mother, whose name for the moment eludes me.

Lorin Clarke’s permission to leave home and live in the mountains.