Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Comment, Dad, Daddyhood, Death, Emotion, Fatherhood, Fear, Immaturity, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Fatherhood, Otis, Parents
Every Saturday, the Guardian Newspaper runs a feature where they interview 2 people who have been out on a blind date over dinner.
And every week, they ask the same questions to both parties.
Sometimes they find love …
Sometimes they find a friend …
Sometimes they find their worst nightmare …
… but it’s always an enjoyable read.
Now while you may think my favourite stories are when the couple hate each other – and some truly do, with a total inability to hide their distain behind their one word, printed answers – that’s not actually my favourite.
As soppy as it sounds, it’s quite marvellous when people find someone they want to see again. Maybe it’s because it’s so rare, or maybe it’s because I’ve found my inner-romantic in my old age, but it’s really lovely.
The thing that makes it even more warming is how they answer the questions.
It’s not simply that they say, “I really like him/her”, it’s the way their answers have a real warmth and respect for the other person. It’s not simply about what they feel, they describe how the other person made them feel. It’s delightful and a very different experience to people who didn’t like their date.
Some get very personal.
Expressing themselves in a way that shows they genuinely think they were aesthetically, intellectually or morally superior. Which, of course, has the result that you find them actually the uglier person inside and out.
Anyway, a few weeks ago, I read about these 2:
Sadly Johnny – 24 and an artist – and Gen – 23 and a post-grad student – didn’t hit it off. But I couldn’t stop looking at their picture.
Or more specifically Johnny’s.
Not because I’m a weirdo, but I kept thinking how he looked like an older version of this one:
Yes … the hair is a big part of it, but there’s other things.
The gentle face.
The compassionate energy.
The wry smile.
I know it’s ridiculous, but it felt like I was seeing my son in 18 years time.
You see, when you’re 51 … your father died at 60 … and your son is 6 … you start to think about death a hell of a lot more.
I don’t like it. I don’t like how it sometimes makes me feel. I don’t like how stupid it can make me … but the reality is there is a chance I won’t make it to see Otis at Johnny’s age and that terrifies me.
I mean, I hope I do.
I hope I live a lot longer than that.
But then my Dad wished he could have seen me get married and become a Dad and he never got that chance … so seeing Johnny felt like a bit of a gift. A chance to glimpse the future, which I appreciate sounds utterly stupid. Because it is.
But it gets worse.
I found myself reading Johnny’s answers over and over again – wanting to make sure he was a nice guy because for a moment, I’d convinced myself that meant Otis would be to. [Good news. They both are, hahaha]
Then I found myself wondering what sort of artist he is and how he got there.
Is he happy?
Is he fulfilled?
Will he achieve what he hopes?
Obviously all of this had triggered my fears and insecurities … projecting the life of a complete stranger who looks a bit like my son on to my son.
Fortunately Otis – who was sat next to me at the time – was living in his own world playing Roblox on his iPad, not giving a fuck that his Dad was having a bit of a meltdown, hahahaha.
So to Johnny, I want to apologise.
I’m sorry an old bloke got kind of obsessed with you for a minute.
I’m sorry I temporarily stole your life to give it to my son.
I’m sorry Gen and you didn’t click. [though you may be happy about that too]
And to Otis …
Well my wonderful boy, know I love you.
Know I wish I could be here forever … to be near you.
To see you grow and blossom. To watch you discover a life of adventure and fulfilment. To witness the choices you make and the life you create.
I hope I see you at 24 and beyond.
And I hope you know my interest in Johnny was not because I want you to live his life, but because I just want to see you live yours.
For decades.
Rx
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Anniversary, Attitude & Aptitude, Birthday, Childhood, China, Comment, Confidence, Context, Culture, Dad, Daddyhood, Death, Emotion, Empathy, Family, Fatherhood, Football, Goodbye America, Goodbye China, Grand announcements, Health, Home, Hope, Innocence, Italy, Jill, LaLaLand, Love, Loyalty, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Fatherhood, Nottingham, Nottingham Forest, Otis, Parents, Sentimentality, Shanghai, Shelly, WeigelCampbell
So today is June 1.
In 11 days, I wave goodbye to my forties and enter a decade that seems impossible for me to fathom.
50.
FIFTY.
Seriously, how did this happen?
I still remember sitting on the hill outside Erica’s newsagent with my best mate Paul around 1978, when we worked out that in the year 2000, we would be turning 30.
But here we are, 11 days from 50.
[Though it’s 15 days for Paul, who will LOVE those 4 days where he can bang on about how he is a decade younger than me … though he will also moan that my present for him isn’t like the full page newspaper ad I got him when he was 40, but a Forest shirt signed by all the members of the 1980 European Cup team. Asshole. He knows about this present as I bought it for him years ago so I’m not ruining anything for him. But I still have a surprise for him. Oh yes.]
Turning 30 bothered me a bit.
I was totally fine with becoming 40.
But 50!
I’m both bricking it and utterly casual about it.
And while there are some practical reasons for the shitting myself part – health, work, life in general – the fact of the matter is the older I get, the better my life has become.
I totally get the privilege of that statement, I don’t take it for granted at all, but it is definitely true.
Personally, professionally, emotionally …
Sure there have been some bumps along the way – some terribly hard and emotionally destructive ones – but looking at the big picture, the reality is my life has generally been on an upward trajectory.
Now even I know that it can’t keep going like that forever … but it doesn’t mean I have to stop trying.
The fact is, the older you get, the more you discover …
From what you like, what you don’t … to what you didn’t know and what you want to know.
And what makes it even more amazing – and annoying – is that every step you take, in whatever direction, reveals a whole host of other possibilities you would like to explore and investigate.
The problem is time is now officially, not on your side … so there’s a point where you have to accept you won’t get to try, play, experiment with all you want to do, so while that might put some people off, it kind of makes me want to try and pack more in.
And I am … because on top of work, Metallica, the school with Martin, I’ve already agreed to do a couple more projects that are intriguing and – frankly – ridiculous.
But there’s another reason for this attitude and it’s because my Dad died at 60.
Death is something I’ve talked a lot about over the years – mainly due to both my parents passing away.
I’ve talked a lot about the importance of taking about it, but I must admit, I’m scared of it.
I’m in generally good health, but fifty is still 50 and my Dad still died just 10 years on from this age.
Now of course it doesn’t mean I will … and I’ve come to this completely unscientific view that I should live till I’m at least 71 because if you take away my Dad’s age of dying [60]from my Mum’s [83] … that leave 23 years. Halve that … add it to Dad’s age … and voila, I will live till at least 71.
But then that means I only have 21 years left.
TWENTY ONE.
That’s nowhere near enough.
My wonderful little boy is only 5 for fucks sake. 26 is way too young to lose your Dad … hell, that’s even younger than I was when I lost mine.
Years ago, an old boss I looked upto said that if you can’t feasibly double your age, that is when you know you are – at best – middle aged or – at worst – the last stage of your life.
Well I suppose I can still feasibly double my age – even if it’s against the average age of death for a man in the UK [79.2] – but the reality is where I’m going is shorter than where I’ve been.
But shorter doesn’t mean less interesting.
And arguably, I have more exciting things in my life now – both personally and professionally – than I have ever had.
It also helps I am insanely immature with a desire for mischief, experimentation, creativity and adventure.
And I intend to fill it up with even more.
Fortunately I get that from a number of sources.
My wife.
My son.
My job.
My other jobs.
My friends.
My mind.
A while back, Pete said something I found pretty profound.
He said the narrative of strategy tended to focus on the importance of curiosity when discovery is far more valuable for driving the standard of the work you create and the adventure you go on.
Now I’ve written a lot about how I hate when planners talk about curiosity – as if they’re the only people who have it – but I really, really like that idea of the hunger for discovery.
I absolutely have that.
I owe so much of what I have to that.
The countries I’ve lived in. The people I’ve worked with. And most importantly, the family I am fortunate to have.
So while I enter a new decade, I will continue to live like it’s the old one.
Not in terms of dressing like I’m younger than I am – mainly because I have always dressed like I live in 1986 – but with the hunger, ambition and desire I’ve always had.
I genuinely believe my best work is still ahead of me.
Truly believe that.
And the goal of this decade is to achieve some of that while discovering new things that make me believe even better work can still lie in my future.
Filed under: Anniversary, Comment, Dad, Death, Emotion, Empathy, Fatherhood, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Fatherhood, Parents
Today is the 2nd anniversary of my wonderful Mum passing away.
If I’m being honest, I’m going through a strange time with it.
On one hand, it seems like yesterday.
The pain. The sadness. The despair.
When I stop and think about it, it re-awakens all the trauma from that day and the days that followed.
However, I am conscious that these thoughts only occur when I give them time to happen.
They are no longer just sitting in my mind, waiting to jump out … I have to open the door to let them in.
I think Mum would be happy about that.
She would never want me to still feel paralysed by the sadness of her loss.
All she would want is for me to think of her in happy terms … remembering the good times we had together.
And I do.
Almost every day.
But I have to admit, I feel a bit guilty about that.
It’s as if I’m not honouring her properly.
Part of it is because it took me 10 years to come to terms with my Dad dying.
Of course the circumstances between the two situations were entirely different, plus I now have Otis who ensures there is never enough time for darkness to fill my heart … but it still feels strange that only on her anniversary do I go back to ‘that day’.
I loved my Mum so much.
I still do.
I miss her every day.
I would do anything to talk to her one more time.
There is so much I want to tell her.
Of what has happened in the past 2 years.
Of what is about to happen.
I’d love to hear her opinion.
I’d love to hear her reaction.
I’d love to hear her questions.
I know this will sound ridiculous, but there are some days where I think I can.
No seriously.
It’s as if I’ve forgotten she has gone and all I have to do is ring her up.
I can’t tell you the amount of times I have stared at her Skype photo, just looking at her face.
I’ve talked to it. I’ve gently caressed it. I’ve even clicked on it a couple of times and let it ring … hoping she’ll pick up and everything will carry on as before.
But of course she doesn’t and she can’t … and yet there is something comforting that I still feel she is in my life.
By that I don’t mean it in terms of my memories – she’ll always be there – I mean the feeling that I’ve simply not spoken to her for a little while.
It means she lives in my present, not my past.
I know that sounds weird and I don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable – but while today represents 2 years since one of the worst days of my life – she, and Dad, would be happy to know I face this day looking forwards rather than being stuck in the past.
Love you Mum.
As you can see from the photos, we’re doing well, especially Otis, so don’t worry about us.
I hope you’re holding hands with Dad and laughing.
Rxxx
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: A Bit Of Inspiration, Anniversary, Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Comment, Dad, Daddyhood, Death, Emotion, England, Family, Happiness, Home, Jill, Love, Loyalty, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Parents, Paul, Respect, Shelly
Hello there.
I hope you all had a wonderful festive season.
I hope 2022 rewards us with all the opportunities and possibilities that the past 2 years took away.
I hope we can see our friends.
See our families.
Be healthy.
Be happy.
Live with hope and optimism.
Now I said this blog wasn’t going to be back until Jan 31st … and it isn’t.
And frankly, after the December I had – which included the death of a dear friend, an unexpected hospital visit for me and an emergency operation for Otis [who is fully recovered, thank god] – I need all the time I can get to recuperate.
However on Sunday, it is 23 years since my Dad died.
In just 6 years time, he will be gone as long as he was in my life.
And in 9 years time, I will be the age he was when he died.
They will be two very significant moments in my life and – if I’m being honest – I’m nervous of one and scared of the other.
Nervous because it just seems impossible he will have been out of my life more than he was in it.
Of course he is still in my life, but you know what I mean.
Scared because the reality of death comes ever nearer.
Now I know no one knows when someone is going to die – but the idea that it could be when I’m 60 – like he was – is an irrational thought that just sits there. Coming out when I least expect it.
And when it’s quiet, another ridiculous idea enters my mind.
Because Mum died at 83 and Dad died at 60 … I can also convince myself I’ll die between those 2 ages.
So 72.
Now I get 72 is quite a way a way, but it feels a fuckload closer when you’re 51 and your son is only 7.
But all this could be the melancholy of this being Dad’s anniversary, because the reality is I’m happier in my life than I’ve been for a long time.
Not that I was unhappy, but there were moments … but right now, I am in a truly good place and my parents would be so happy to know that.
Which is why I want this post to be about something that would make Dad smile.
A few weeks ago, Jill and I were talking about books that made us laugh to the point of pain.
While we both had a few, her major one was Catch 22 and mine was the first Adrian Mole book – The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole aged 13 ¾.
Adrian Mole’s ‘diary’ came out in 1982 but I got it in the summer of 1983 … which means I read it at the same age as Adrian was.
I loved it. It was hilarious, poignant, tragic and uplifting.
It covered so many issues so many kids were going through.
Family. Friendship, Girls. Sex. Arguments. Parent and Grandparent arguments.
It was, in some ways, the diary of every kids aged 13.
I loved it and still love it when I revisit it every 5 years or so.
But the reason I’m telling you this is because of when my Dad read it.
I think Mum had told him how much I enjoyed it so he decided to check it out.
Anyway, one morning I came downstairs and Mum asked me to ask Dad about what happened in the night.
She said it with a smile, so I knew it wasn’t bad.
I went in the lounge and he was there in his favourite rocking chair.
“Mum told me to ask you what happened last night”
As soon as I said it, he looked at me. His face lit up, a big smile came on his face that allowed his gorgeous dimples to come into the spotlight.
“Oh Robert …” he said, “I was reading your book last night and the bit about the Christmas turkey not being defrosted made me howl with laughter.”
“It was 2am and I had to come downstairs to try and calm down”.
“The bit where they’re trying to thaw the turkey under the hot tap in the bath …” to which he he burst out laughing again with tears in his eyes.
Of course, seeing my Dad like this made me laugh too and then I heard Mum laughing from the kitchen at the state of both of us.
While I never really understood why that bit tickled him so much, I have an idea.
Whether it was the time Mum invited a really miserable elderly couple to our Christmas dinner but only announced it a few days before Christmas and we already had a house full booked … to Dad’s terrible first ever experience with a microwave that literally carbonised sausages … to drunk family members causing scenes … to buying a turkey so big it didn’t even fit in our over … to a not-very-funny-but-very-funny episode with a glass of water when his Mum came to visit.
Who knows. Maybe it was some of that, maybe it was none of it.
But regardless of the reason, I will always remember how that paragraph revealed the child in my Dad and that is why I will always love that book.
It might also explain why I love the Plenty Christmas ad from a couple of years ago. Because watching it again, it’s basically that scene made as a commercial.
I miss my Dad.
I miss him so much.
I would give anything to be able to talk to him and discuss what I’ve done in the last 23 years.
Introduce him to his daughter in law and grandson.
Tell him that Paul and I are still inseparable and mischievous.
Show him all the places I’ve visited and lived and then tell him about all the things I’ve done and still want to do and try.
Watch him try to take it all in and then hear all his questions.
But as I can’t, I’ll honour him by sharing the paragraph that made him roar [which is at the very bottom of this post] and say this:
Dad. I love you.
I think about you all the time.
I am almost overwhelmed with the things I want to say and share.
I hope you’d like [most] of the decisions I’ve made. I know a few would raise eyebrows, but hopefully not too many.
All I’ve ever wanted to do is make you and Mum proud.
I hope I’m doing that overall.
A kiss to you and Mum.
And a lifetime of my love.
To the rest of you, give your loved ones a hug and see you on the 31st.
_________________________________________________________________
The Secret Life Of Adrian Mole Aged 13 ¾ by Sue Townsend
Friday December 25th (1981)
I went up to the bathroom and found my mother crying and running the turkey under the hot tap.
She said, “The bloody thing won’t thaw out, Adrian. What am I going to do?”
I said, “Just bung it in the oven.” So she did.
‘We went down to eat Christmas dinner four hours late. By then my father was too drunk to eat anything.’