Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Anniversary, Birthday, Death, Family, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad
Today would be Mum’s 94th birthday.
And even though she died in 2015 – aged 83 – there is a part of me that still thinks she could have lived to this age if her heart operation hadn’t gone the way it did.
Not that the surgery was bad … the problem was that Mum’s heart condition was caused because of an illness she had as a small child and no one had realised its impact until things started to go a different way in the operation than anyone expected or had planned for.
But if that hadn’t happened … I fully expect Mum would be alive.
Actually, not just alive, but living.
Slower – for sure – but still curious, interested and engaged in life because as I’ve said many times, she always told me to be interested in what others are interested in, which was a belief she didn’t just follow, but lived every day.
In a perfect world, she’d now be living with us in NZ … and despite her being fiercely independent, I think she would have done it.
I even think she would have loved it.
Being nearer only son.
Seeing her only grandson.
Chatting to her daughter in law.
Patting the lovely – but slightly stupid – Bonnie.
God I would have loved to have witnessed this. To have witnessed her living in the peace and tranquility of our house in the trees. And while I am sure she would have occasions where she felt far from home – be that Italy or England – I really believe that would be countered by the safety, comfort and warmth she’d experienced being close to people who love her and that she loved.
I always remember how much she loved me coming home to visit her.
How she loved how the house because a cauldron of noise as I – and my friends – filled it with laughter and chatter.
And while we would have ensured she had her own space for her own life, I suspect that she would have spent more time with us than alone. Or she would once we told her we loved her hanging out with us – as I also suspect she’d be so worried she was crowding us out, she would stay out of her way.
Because Mum always was doing more for others than herself.
Looking out for them.
Wanting to do the best for them.
And while that is kind and generous and loving – I wanted her to feel cared for.
I wanted her to feel loved, protected and put first.
And while we had our moments of niggles as I tried to do this for her – while she did all she could to resist it – towards the end we had found a place of harmony and understanding which meant the world to me, because that is how we were for most of our life together and how I would have loved to have seen our life together if we had ever been able to bring her to NZ.
But alas that didn’t happen.
In fact, when Mum died a lot that I am quoting in this fantasy extention of my family life, hadn’t happened either.
We hadn’t left China and moving to NZ wasn’t even on the radar.
Hell, we had to move to America and England before that was to happen – and even then that was motivated as much by COVID as it was by Colenso.
Then there’s the fact we had only just had Otis … and don’t even get me started on Bonnie.
And yet, that image of Mum with us resides in my heart. I’d truly have loved it and so today – in her honour – I’ll be cooking a dinner that I know she would have wanted to cook for us.
Nothing fancy, but a true Italian pasta sauce – simple and yet delicious as hell.
Because the one thing Mum taught me was that love isn’t complicated, it’s just showing you care.
Happy Birthday Mum, I love you so much.
I wish I had more photos of you that I could use in these posts.
The fact I don’t just reinforces how you have gone and how much I miss you.
So a big kiss to you and to Dad.
You’re forever with me.
Rx
Filed under: 2026, A Bit Of Inspiration, Dad, Death, Gambling, Goodbye, Life, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad
This is a weird post but I watched something recently that reminded me how grateful I am I was present for two of the worst moments of my life.
When I was younger, the idea of being with my parents when they were about to die was horrific to me. Not because I didn’t love my parents – but because I did.
Massively.
I’ve written a lot about how wonderful they were.
How grateful I am to have had them as my Mum and Dad … for their unshakeable love, support, encouragement and care – even when I pushed my luck with all that to the absolute extreme.
And it was that force of love that made me think being there when they were about to die, would be the worst pain I could ever experience.
And I was right. It is the worst pain. But it would have been even worse if I’d not been there when it was the end.
Because being with loved ones at the final goodbye is not really about you. It’s about them.
Letting them know they can go without being alone.
That the people who care for them the most are there to give them the love, support and acceptance they need to make their final step.
Is it horrible?
That doesn’t even come close to summing up how bad it feels.
Is it important?
Neither does that …
Because being with a loved one at the most tragic of times helps prepare you for welcoming in the memories of the best of times.
It won’t happen immediately.
It won’t happen without incredible pain and sadness.
It may – like it did for me – require therapy to help you deal with it.
But it will happen.
Because underpinning all of it is the knowledge you were there when they needed you most.
They say when you put a dog down, the last thing they look for is you.
That you are the person who has always given them the sense of safety and love that lets them live the happiest of lives.
Of course, humans are not dogs … but that sentiment feels right.
The ultimate demonstration of love is being with someone at the most painful of times you could both ever face.
And while I appreciate that some people will be physically unable to get there … and while I truly understand the idea of doing it is horrific and tragic … I implore you, if there is a chance to say goodbye at the final curtain – do it.
It is OK to feel scared.
It is OK to be upset.
It is OK to not know what to do or say.
But I assure you, going will make you feel better in the long run.
Because at the end, we all want to feel we showed how much someone mattered to us and we all want to know we meant something to someone … which is why I am eternally grateful I was able to be at my Mum and Dad’s side when it was the end for them. And while it took a long time to move past the final days that relived over and over again in my head – and while I hate I have to refer to the same few photographs I have of them over and over again – I am so happy my mind is now filled with the colour and joy they added to my life.
That they still do.
And I know they would love that too.
Filed under: 2026, A Bit Of Inspiration, Career, Children, Comment, Daddyhood, Emotion, Empathy, Experience, Love, Loyalty, Mental Health, Mum & Dad, My Fatherhood, R/GA
This is my last post for a week because I’m away for the next 10 days.
I know. Again.
And as ridiculous as my travel itinerary has been this year, this trip is the most ridiculous of them all.
Not for where I’m going, but why.
And with whom I’ll be rubbing shoulders with.
But that’s for another day – especially as this post is earnest-as-fuck and my trip is arguably superficial-as-hell [even though it’s not] – so I’ll see you a week on Tuesday and until then, remember that sometimes the best way to show you care about someone is to not do anything special for them.
Read on, it will hopefully explain all …
So as toxic as social media is, there are still moments where good things shine through – and I saw one of them this week.
It’s this:
Now whether this is a real message or not – I’m not sure. But what I do know is it not only reflects the sort of situation many people are experiencing right now, but it’s how I hope I’d respond if Otis ever found himself in a similar situation.
Too often – especially with parents, or more specifically male parents – we try to ‘fix’ problems that our loved ones face. And while it no doubt comes from a good place, sometimes all we need to provide is reassurance that we love them, we’re proud of them and we empathise with the situation they face but don’t judge them for it.
No pressure.
Not expectations.
No forcing yourself into their situation.
Just love, empathy and – I can’t stress this enough – normality.
If you’ve done a good job with your kids, they will hopefully work it out for themselves or ask for some help if they can’t. And while being interested in what they’re interested in is important – that doesn’t extend to making demands of them or adding additional pressure to them.
This is even more important when a child is in a situation they didn’t ask for or hope for … of which losing a job is one of those situations.
Too often redundancy suggests the individual failed, rather than the company.
This is not by accident.
Companies love to suggest this narrative as it means the focus of attention is on the individual rather than the organization and the shame attached to redundancy keeps the person quiet so the company can act in public like all is well.
I talked about this in The Observer Newspaper back in 2020 when when I found myself being made redundant by R/GA … and while my ex-employer generally treated me OK, I still heard comments from people that seemed to suggest I should feel embarrassed I lost my job and was being professionally irresponsible speaking so openly about it.
Look, no one wants to lose their job, but it happens – and it’s going to happen a fuckload more as corporates increasingly value short-term profits over long-term trust and responsibility – which is why my attitude at the time was the more people knew I was on the market, the more likely I would find someone who wanted to take me off it.
And I was lucky because that is exactly what happened.
But a lot has changed in the past 4+ years in terms of how companies operate … and given I have a young son who will one day need to find his own career path, I guess that’s why that Twitter/X message made such an impression on me.
But the real lesson in it is that it doesn’t matter how old you are … everyone needs to feel there is someone out there who sees – and values them – for who they are, not what job they have or what things they own.
That doesn’t mean you provide blind faith.
Nor does it mean you offer false promises or hope.
It simply means you know when the best thing you can do to show how much you care, is to do absolutely nothing special for them.
Because at a time where there is so much ‘performative’ compassion, sometimes, the greatest gift you can give someone is ‘mundane normality’.
Something I now realise my parents were also brilliant at doing.
See you on Tuesday the 27th.
Filed under: 2026, A Bit Of Inspiration, Aspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Audiences, Business, Childhood, Context, Culture, Food, Food For Thought, Happiness, Mum & Dad, My Childhood
Recently, I saw this article on Linkedin …
While I appreciate their point, it felt like another example of someone who only sees the world through their own perspective.
And while that’s common – which is why I normally ignore it – the slight diss towards strategists made me bite.
Hence I responded with this …
While I hope it didn’t come across too judgmental or condescending, I also hope my point is made …
Not just in terms of planners being the last people in marketing who are deliberately ignorant, but that one persons ‘reliably not shit’ is another persons ‘taste of the good life’.
As I said in the post, when I was growing up, we would only go out for dinner once – a max – twice a year.
Either to Trattoria Antonio – an Italian Restaurant on Trent Bridge.
Or the Berni Inn, which was called – for added attempt at sophistication – ‘The Chateau’.
Here’s a pic of the place that – sadly – is no longer there. Knocked down to be turned into another faceless shopping industrial estate.
In fact, it was The Chateau where I experienced a lot of my ‘firsts’ where certain foods are concerned …
Steak.
Broccoli.
Onion Rings.
Knickerbockerglory.
My god, I thought it was fancy-as-fuck and to a young kid from Nottingham, it was.
Hell, I still remember being confused by how they advertised their ‘2 courses for 5 quid’ promotion … because they made it sound like it was a bargain when for me/my folks, that was still pricey. Strangely though, I never associated it with lower quality food – such was my lack of exposure to what steak cost or was supposed to taste like, hahaha.
Maybe that’s why I still prefer eating the ‘cheaper-end’ of food rather than the fancy stuff I’ve since been exposed to and experienced … and why every marketer, planner, creative or suit needs to remember if you base audiences on who you want them to be or what your personal perspective and context is, then you may find you’re not just talking to yourself, but that might be the only person you’re talking to.
Filed under: 2026, Anniversary, Attitude & Aptitude, Birthday, Dad, Daddyhood, Death, Emotion, Empathy, Family, Fatherhood, Jill, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Childhood, My Fatherhood, Otis
I’m not back, but today would have been my Dad’s 88th birthday so I had to mark the occasion.
Eighty Eight!!
That means he’s been gone 28 years. Or said another way, literally half my life.
HALF! That is both wild and seemingly impossible.
And yet it’s true, which is why I’m extra happy he’s been in my thoughts a lot recently. Not that he was ever out-my-mind, but his presence has been more – errrrm – present and I like it.
I loved being an only child.
I was spoilt with love, support, care and attention.
I never wanted for brothers or sisters and always adored the company of Mum and Dad.
Even during my angst-ridden teenage years.
I feel extremely grateful for that … though it was only when I saw the relationship some of my friends had with their parents, that I truly sppreciated how lucky I was.
Which is why when my parents died, the loss was overwhelming.
In some ways, it felt like I experienced their death twice.
Because while Dad was first and Mum followed 16 years later – there was a moment immediately after Mum was gone that I truly realized – and felt – that I was truly alone.
It felt weird and sad and scary …
A strange mix of abandonment and feeling like an orphan.
It was a very challenging time, even though I was an adult with my own family.
In fact, if it wasn’t for them, I genuinely wonder how long it would have taken for me to feel I had got back on an even keel, because even with them, it took years.
The thing with death – as I’ve written many times before – is that while people are very supportive towards you at the moment of loss, within 24 hours they have generally all moved on with their lives. That’s not meant as a diss … they have their own issues and challenges to deal with … but the impact of that is you feel even more alone.
But if I think I had it bad when Dad died, my poor Mum had it worse.
Not only had she lost her husband of 35 years – a man she had been taking care of 24/7 for over 3 years after he suffered multiple debilitating strokes – she also saw her only son leave her to go back to Australia where he lived.
When I try to put into words the sense of isolation and loss I felt when I realized I no longer had any ‘real world’ parental support, I think of how Mum must have felt those first few days after losing Dad and feel so sad that maybe I didn’t really understand it until too late.
Didn’t really understand it till I wrote this post.
But as I said, my Dad – and Mum – have been on my mind a lot recently.
Or should I say, part of my energy.
It’s given me a real sense of comfort and warmth rather than just a feeling of loss.
They come up in conversation.
Everyday moments trigger good, funny and special memories with them.
When I talk about them, it in a weird blend of past and present tense.
Put simply, it’s lovely.
A feeling I’m closer to them than I’ve been in years.
Of course, I would do anything to still have them around … have them be part of my life and my families … share, experience and build more moments and memories … but as dead parents go, this is quite a wonderful period I am having with them.
Which is why today – on what would be Dad’s 88th birthday – I won’t just be thinking of him and feeling the loss of him not being around any longer, I’ll be talking to him and letting him know that despite being gone half my life, the love and impact he had on me for those first 26 years of my life still have a grip of comfort, adoration and respect.
Which as proof of doing a good job as a parent goes, is pretty much the pinnacle.
So happy birthday Dad. I still feel very lucky I get to call you that.
Rx
