Filed under: Childhood, Comment, Dad, Death, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Parents
Oh Dad, how can it be 18 years.
How is that possible?
I remember that phonecall like it was yesterday.
You had been in hospital since Christmas having taken a turn for the worse.
And then on the 27th December, Mum called to say it was very bad and the Doctors had told her that I should come back right away.
In a weird way, this did not worry me.
We had gone through the same situation twice in the last 3 months and both times, you had pulled through.
But then I realised Mum’s voice sounded a bit different … more scared … and that’s when I started to get worried.
As you know, after a rather traumatic flight from Sydney, I got to Nottingham and was by your side at the QMC.
You were very poorly, but you knew I was there and it seemed to help.
But the strange thing is I can’t really remember what happened between arriving by your side and the Doctor asking me if I wanted him to remove the suffering you were going through.
I know Mum and I spent every day – from the moment visiting hours started to when they ended – next to you.
I know I told you how much I loved you. How I tried to will you back to health.
But the actual conversations and considerations are a total blank.
I’d like to say it’s because 18 years is a long time, but it’s actually because my brain refused to let me deal with the realities of your situation until that conversation with the Doctor.
4 years of delusion and denial pricked by a single conversation with the Doctor.
4 years of ignoring Mum as she quietly and tenderly tried to prepare me for the inevitable.
I certainly hope I was better when Mum passed away.
Of course, it was less expected than your situation and yet, deep down, I feared it may happen – as, it seems, did Mum – which is why I was much more aware of what was happening or what may happen.
So I need to thank you yet again, for helping me learn.
For trying to ensure I didn’t face more pain than I absolutely needed to.
Oh Dad, I wish you were here.
I wish I could hear the questions you would have for me.
I wish I could look into your bright blue eyes as you heard what I’d been up to over the last 18 years.
The decisions I’ve made …
The situations I’ve encountered …
The life I have somehow managed to live …
I would give anything to hear the pride – mixed with incredulity – you’d express about the career I’ve managed to forge.
The places it’s let me live. The people it’s let me meet. The experiences it’s let me enjoy.
The family it has let me have.
The daughter-in-law you would absolutely adore.
And the grandson you would be totally obsessed with.
But you’re not here … not physically, anyway … but in a weird way, Mum passing has made me feel closer to you.
Not that you were ever far away, but 18 years meant I had got used to the memory of you rather than the presence of you.
However now Mum has joined you, I kind of feel you’re both near me again.
I know that’s mad and I can see you shaking your head at me … but it’s true.
Don’t worry, I’ve not become a religious fool – but the fact you’re together has helped me a lot because I never was happy that you were both apart from each other.
But now, my mind, you’re back together, as you should be.
As you always were throughout my childhood.
And I cannot tell you how special that was to me.
Even more so now.
So while today is a day of sadness, it is also a day of joy … because you will be happy to know I am no longer lost in the pain of your final few years and can now focus on the wonderful life you had and we shared, exemplified when I had the honour of discovering the card you wrote to Mum when I was born.
I never doubted how much you loved me, but finding this was the verbal equivalent of one of your warm, wonderful hugs.
Sure I cried my eyes out, but oh what a feeling that was.
I so hope Otis feels the same way when he finally stops trying to wriggle out of my arms everytime I give him a cuddle. Ha.
So now it is time to go and I want to leave you by saying that while it has been 18 years, the love I have for you has never faded – if anything, quite the opposite – and even though I wish with all my heart that you were still here to be involved in the daily rituals of my life, the fact you’re with Mum makes the sadness a bit more manageable.
Still miss you though.
Love you Dad.
Rx
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Comment, Cunning, Emotion, Fatherhood, Jill, Love, My Fatherhood, Otis, Parents
As you read this, I’ll be on a plane to the UK for a weekend with my best friend.
I know … that sounds a bit indulgent, but the reason for that is because next week I’m in Amsterdam for work and to run a couple of classes for HOALA, so it’s not that too princessy.
So the good news for you is there will be no posts for all of next week.
The bad news – for Martin Weigel – is he is going to have to put up with me for 5 whole days.
Anyway, the reason for the title of this blog post is recently my wife sent me this message while she was in a cafe with Otis for a spot of breakfast.
I cannot tell you how proud I am.
Not just of Otis, but of my parenting skills, because they seem to be achieving real results in terms of nurturing a mischievous little sod.
Anyway, until the 14th …
Filed under: Comment, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Fatherhood, Otis, Parents
So yesterday went pretty well.
No one quit [yet] and everyone seemed to get along.
In some respects, that might be the most successful thing I’ll have achieved with The Kennedys.
Today we’re going to talk about emotion and the power it has over us.
I bring this up because on my holiday, I went to see some of my Italian family and I have to say that the whole thing was very emotional for me.
Part of this was because I stayed in the house, in the small town, in the small province where my Mum lived.
It was a place my Mum always regarded as incredibly special and important to her and to be there – with my family for the first time – was incredibly emotional for me.
Seeing my son run around a home that my Mum had run around as a child was both wonderful to see and hard to take.
Without doubt she would have been so very, very happy we were there, I just wish she was there to see it.
I looked at everything differently while I was there.
Everywhere I went I tried to imagine Mum as a child playing in the streets, visiting the park that she eventually took me to as a child [and that I took Otis too], laughing with her friends.
When I stood on one of the old houses balcony’s, I kept thinking Mum had done the same thing at one time.
In some ways, it made me feel I was near her again … that I had ‘brought her home’ and I loved that, though it also meant the rawness of her loss came to the surface again.
While I was there I met some of Mum’s school friends.
Some I had met before, some I hadn’t.
To hear them talk so wonderfully about my Mum really got to me.
It’s not that those words hadn’t been said by others before, it was just that these people knew my Mum in a way few did – certainly not me – and somehow that meant their words had even more power.
It was a privilege to be there and I am so glad I was able to bring my new family together with my old, but I don’t mind telling you I was emotionally exhausted when I left.
But there’s one story I want to talk about, because it’s a story I’m going to be telling The Kennedys students about today.
While I was in Italy, one of my relations showed me a bunch of old photographs.
One was of my family home in Nottingham and when I turned the photo over to see if had been dated, I saw this …
That’s my Dad’s writing.
Writing I had not seen for a long, long time.
And I have to say, it knocked me sideways.
I couldn’t stop looking at it.
Running my finger across it.
Like standing on that balcony in Mum’s family home, this writing suddenly made me feel close to my Dad again.
Not just emotionally, but physically.
It didn’t matter it was just an address.
It didn’t matter it was so old, I’m guessing it was when Mum & Dad had just moved into the area given he had spelt ‘Bridgford’ incorrectly.
It was my Dad and this had moved him from my past into my present.
And that was an amazing feeling. A precious, amazing feeling.
Now that’s what I call a real family holiday.
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Comment, Experience, Family, Fatherhood, Holiday, Jill, Love, Otis
So by the time you read this post, I’ll be in Paris.
And yes, it’s for work.
It’s potentially the best work assignment of my life because not only do I have the pleasure of presenting to a bunch of global NIKE guys, I’m doing a presentation about Boatie McBoatface.
No really, I am.
Mind you, having written that down, I’m starting to realise the idea was better when it was in my head.
Oh well, too late now …
But if you think that’s showing off, wait till you hear this.
Tomorrow I fly home …
But it’s not to go back to work, oh no, it’s to pick up my wife and son and then get on another plane and spend a month on holiday.
I can’t wait … we will be catching up with old friends, seeing members of family and doing a bunch of new things in new places.
But most of all, we will be together … and while I’d love Rosie the cat to be with us, it will still be very special for me.
Being together is precious.
Of course that is to be expected, however when you have a young child, it takes on another dimension.
You don’t just do things together … you get to experience new things together.
Normally with a young child, life falls into 2 parts:
1. You bring them into your life. [Where they experience things you’ve done before]
2. You let them explore their life. [Where they experience things designed just for them]
But on a holiday – especially a holiday where you will be spending time in a place none of you have been before – you get to experience things for the first time together, literally share an experience where everyone is [kind-of] equal.
Now while I know it is exceedingly unlikely my 18 month old baby will ever remember anything from it, the fact is I will and I can tell you it will automatically be something important in my life and that makes me extra excited to be going away.
I’m back on the 17th July, so enjoy your holiday from me while I enjoy my holiday from you.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Advertising, Agency Culture, America, Anniversary, Attitude & Aptitude, Authenticity, Comment, Creativity, Culture, Cynic, Dad, Daddyhood, Deutsch, Differentiation, Emotion, Empathy, End of Year, England, Family, Fatherhood, Friendship, Goodbye America, Goodbye China, Grand announcements, Happiness, Hello America, Holiday, Home, Innocence, Insight, Jill, LaLaLand, London, Love, Martin Weigel, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Fatherhood, Otis, Parents, Paul, Planners, Planning, R/GA, Relationships, Rosie, Sentimentality, WeigelCampbell, Wieden+Kennedy
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d9/Tardis_BBC_Television_Center.jpg
So this is the final post of the year.
It’s been a big year for me and the family.
Then again, it was a big year for the family last year too.
However, whereas 2017 saw us leave Shanghai and Wieden+Kennedy – something that was truly emotional for all of us – 2018 has seen us go from sunny LA, working at Deutsch, living in a house by the beach and driving a custom made Audi to being citizens of cold and rainy London, living in a much smaller house in Fulham, working at R/GA [with some sprinkles of Metallica madness in-between] and traveling by tube to and from everywhere.
And we haven’t been this happy in ages.
Don’t get me wrong, there are things we definitely miss from our life in the US – people, the weather, Otis’ school, free soda refills and bacon mainly – but this move was right for us for a whole host of reasons, personal and professional, and we enter 2019 with the full expectation we’ll still be here when 2020 comes around.
I hope.
It’s funny, when I read the final post I wrote for last year, it is apparent that change was in our minds. We didn’t think that openly, but it seems it was there.
Of course, moving to a country and then leaving in just over a year is not the best thing.
It’s financial stupidity for one.
But these things happen and we are very happy for the amazing experience, though I must admit I’m even happier my wife, son and cat are still talking to me.
Fools.
But while our environment has changed, some things have stayed exactly the same.
Your ability to trash everything I write on here, for one.
And to you all, I say a huge thank you.
Sure, being told I’m a bad dressing, musically ignorant, gadget tosser every-single-day can get a bit tiring, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Because amongst the insults, there’s often pearls of gold in there.
Stuff that makes me think about things a different way.
Stuff that influences how I think about things I never thought about.
Stuff that just keeps me on my toes and interested about stuff.
And I love it.
I love that people come here and share a bit of their time and opinion with me.
Yes, I appreciate moving to the UK and still posting at 6am is screwing up the flow of the comments given the East Coast of America is asleep and can’t insult/join-in until much later … but the fact so many people still write makes me feel very fortunate.
While I have loved the ability to move countries and cultures so many times – and hope to continue doing it, just not for a bit – the reality is that is makes your friendship network difficult.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m very fortunate we have technology to keep me in touch with the wonderful people I’ve met in every country we’ve lived [whether they like it or not] and this year I got to catch up with people I’ve not seen in years – from Freddie to Paula – but there is something about having a level of constancy that makes you feel settled.
Bizarrely, this blog has provided me with a bit of that.
Even with people I have still yet to meet.
[Though I met Marcus and Neil Perkin this year and that made me so happy]
While I would never suggest I am your friend, you have been to me – in many ways and at many times, both at moments of darkness and happiness – and I want to take this opportunity to say thank you.
To all of you.
Even you Andy.
When I started this blog way back in May 2006, I never expected anyone to read it, let alone comment so the fact some of you still are – regardless that many Police officers would call it abuse – I’m grateful.
I’m excited about next year.
It will be big.
Not because we’ll be moving … or I’ll changing job … but new things will be entering my life.
From my beloved Otis starting proper school – which literally is screwing with my head – to the much-talked-about-but-not-much-actually-done Weigel/Campbell officially doing its thing in addition to the exciting adventures and exploits my wonderfully beautiful family, my bloody amazing friends and fantastic new planning team will get up to that will make me feel even luckier than I do already.
Being back in England has had a much bigger effect on me than I ever imagined it would.
I am grateful for it.
I am grateful for all I have.
I hope this holiday season and 2019 is one that is wonderful for you all too.
See you in a few weeks. [Yeah, don’t think you get so lucky to not have me come back]