Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Context, Dad, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Childhood, Otis, Relationships, Resonance, Tattoo
So I’m back again.
Kinda.
I say that as by the time you read this, I’ll be off again.
On a plane, to a different country. But don’t get too excited because unlike the other recent trips, it’s only a few days so this blog – if anyone reads it – will be back on Thursday.
You’d think with all the time I’ve been away, I’d of had a chance to think up some new topics to write about. But quite frankly, the biggest news is the realization we’re now entering the last month of blogging for 2025.
How the hell did we get to this point of the year so quickly?
The thought that in just over a couple of months we enter the 19th year of this rubbish is mindblowing … though maybe I should say mind numbing, hahaha.
Anyway, this post is about tattoos.
Hang in there, it’s quite a personal post.
I got my first tat when I was about 41 years old.
I’d always thought about them but either was worried about the pain or not sure what I would want on me.
Things changed when I found myself in a tattoo shop in LA while on holiday with Jill, Paul and Shelly … and suddenly the opportunity to ‘go for it’ was just a head-nod away.
So, I did and almost immediately it made more sense to me than I ever imagined.
You see, for a sentimental fool like me, tattoos are a way to commemorate and celebrate all that is – or has been – important to me.
More than a reminder, but a way to keep these things alive in my consciousness.
Maybe that’s why I find having them peaceful.
Proper peace.
To the point I sleep through them rather than wince because of them.
So, while some can have any old shit inked onto their body, for me each is deeply personal and that’s why my arms are covered in a hotchpotch of weird personal references and deeply emotional significance … from toast with the Superman logo burnt into it to a mooncake, an owl, an octopus, a black heart with flowers and Ms Piggy right through to things like my old Nottingham post code and phone number, Rosie’s face, paw and nose and Otis birth date to name but a few.
But recently I had 2 more added that had a bigger impact on me than I imagined.
While going through some old photos, I found my parents passports.
As I looked through the pages, I saw their signatures and it really got to me.
Part of it was I’d not seen them for a long time.
Part of it is knowing they won’t ever write them again.
Part of it is because they’d written them with their own hand, so I felt close to them again.
It was an emotional moment and decided there and then I wanted them tattooed on me.
Now I have tattoos for Mum and Dad already [the Owl and Ms Piggy] but this was different and so when I talked to an artist near our house about it, she readily agreed and created scans she could use as a template to ink.
And this is the result.
They’re perfect.
Both in terms of how they look and where they are.
But more than that, they’re perfect in what they mean and represent.
I was gobsmacked when I first saw them because it felt so surreal to see their signatures written new again.
Yes, I know I’d asked for them, but these were ‘fresh and new’ and given Dad has been gone 25 years – and Mum 9 – it felt like they were part of my present, not simply my past.
Being able to look at my wrist and not just see their names, but their actual signatures is very special to me as it means they are now living in my world … but more than that, I’m taking them with me. Showing and sharing with them how I live and what I do. Having them on the journey with me rather than just in my memory.
I appreciate not everyone will get this and some may think I have finally – or officially – cracked, but I hope some people get it, because the point of a tattoo, at least for me, isn’t about branding, but living.
Ensuring things of significance in life are not consigned to ‘memory status’, but liberated to be oxygen for where you go. Not because you can’t let go or are frightened to … but because the energy of what they are helps take you further. In the now. In the present. In the forever.
Filed under: Corona Virus, Dad, England, Family, Italy, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Childhood, My Fatherhood, New Zealand, Otis
So on Sunday, it would be Mum’s 92nd birthday.
Now of course, she has been gone 9 years … however despite that, I still feel deeply connected to her birthday so for me, that number still feels very real to me.
I often wonder what life would be like if she was still here.
I say that, because had she still been alive, I don’t think we would be in NZ.
When COVID happened, we would have brought her to us in London … so she would be kept safe, cared for and loved.
I would imagine it would have been quite the challenge to get her to agree because she was always fiercely independent … but apart from the fact Otis would have been the major draw card, the fact is that towards the end of her life, she had accepted she needed some help. Not much, but a little. Even if that was just so she had someone to talk to every now and then, despite loving her own company.
And if that was the case there is no way we would have left the UK.
If anything, we would have been more likely to move to Italy … so she could be back in her homeland, near her sister and nieces.
Not that she would have expected us to do that – oh no, she was adamant I had to live my life, not look after hers – but that was a [gentle] tension we endured throughout our time together.
Her wanting to look after me by never demanding anything of me.
Me wanting to look after her by being protective and supportive.
Fortunately, towards the end we had found a calmness in how we dealt with it.
She’d accept what I sent her, and I’d accept she’d do nothing with any of it. Hahaha.
I know that might sound like some weird kind of ‘truce’, but it worked for us and I presume many other families work in a similar way. Acceptance, compromise and convenience … not because it ‘keeps the peace’, but because ultimately, you know the other person is doing it with love, even if it’s not exactly as you wish/hoped they’d act.
My Mum was the master of seeing the love.
Or dealing with challenges with love.
I can’t help but feel we’d all be better off if we followed her way of living rather than the self-serving, myopic, populist, egotism that the world is riddled with these days.
While I’m glad Mum didn’t have to endure the challenges of COVID, I’d have been so happy if it had meant she would be with us. I’ve written before how one of the worst of times was – thanks to my huge privilege – very special for me. By that, I mean in terms of COVID allowing me to be with my family 24/7.
They may have been sick of it, but I utterly loved it. Treasured it even.
But the reality is Mum had died years before, which meant NZ became a real option for us. And what a move it has turned out to be for the family. And while we won’t be here forever, we have valued and enjoyed every minute … which is why on top of thanking Colenso and the country for making it what it is [which is Otis’ FAVE EVER country, hence I’m going to ruin his life again one day in the not too distant, but not close, future] I also need to thank my Mum for kinda making this happen.
Or said another way … thank her for looking after my best interests even when I don’t fully realise that until later.
What a human. What a Mum.
Happy Birthday Mum, I love you.
Big hugs to you and give Dad a big kiss from me.
Filed under: America, China, Dad, Death, Emotion, Empathy, England, Family, Home, Hong Kong, Jill, Love, Loyalty, Mum, Mum & Dad, New Zealand, Otis, Parents, Rosie, Shanghai, Singapore
So tomorrow marks the 2nd month since Rosie passed … and I am still struggling with it.
I appreciate how pathetic that may sound, but it’s how I feel.
In many ways, the loss of Rosie feels very, very similar to the loss of my parents.
I don’t say that lightly.
I also don’t say that because my parents weren’t wonderful.
Frankly, they were amazing and gave me a childhood where I can honestly say I never wanted for love, support or encouragement. And while I didn’t really appreciate how special that was until I was much older and realised not everyone got to experience that, I definitely understand how blessed I was for what they gave me and left me.
However, while Mum and Dad were my physical and emotional constant throughout my first 20+ years of my life … as I went through my key adult ’life stage’ years – such as marriage, moving countries [a lot] and starting a family – they weren’t. Part of this is because by then I was living far, far away from them – so only connected to them by phone, albeit on a daily basis, as well as my annual visit home – and part of this is because sadly, both of them died over this period of time. Which means from 2007, Rosie – along with Jill – were my physical and emotional constants.
Wherever I was … whatever I was going through … they were the ones who I went back to each and every day.
Who were there for me, each and every day.
In essence, they were on the other side of the bridge that took me between childhood to adulthood, which I hope helps explain Rosie’s significance and importance in my life.
But there is another reason I feel such loss and that is because I can’t help but feel I had something to do with it.
At the end of the day – while it was out of love to ensure she didn’t suffer given her kidneys had stopped working – I/we made the decision when her life would end. And for all the compassion, care, gentleness and tears we shed, it is something I still feel guilty about.
Of course it is full of irrationality …
Somehow, I am of the belief that we could have nursed her back to health. That … had we not taken her to the vet that Saturday morning for a routine injection, she’d still be with us.
And maybe she would … except the likelihood is she would have ended up suffering far more as we wouldn’t have had the time to get her the specialist care that ensured she didn’t suffer more than she had to.
But that Saturday is burned into my mind.
That morning she was almost back to her old self.
Jumping on our bed in the morning. Wanting food. Doing her loud ‘surprise happy scream’ every time she saw us. We even said, “she’s back to her old self”.
The injection at the vets was just to help with her arthritis – nothing more – and yet a quick blood test set off a chain of events that led to us saying goodbye to her 48 hours later.
And while I know the reality of the situation is her kidneys had started to properly fail … in fact, her readings had more than doubled within the month – from an already terrible score of 400, which represents ‘stage 4’ out of 4 possible levels for a cat’s kidney health to just under 1000 – I still find the image of leaving our house looking well and returning ready for goodbye hard to reconcile. Hard to let go of my complicity in creating this situation – even though every vet we spoke to had already warned us of the severity of her situation and, if truth be known, we were aware that her previous illness a month earlier signified a major shift in her wellbeing. As I wrote in the post announcing her death, that shift felt similar to the final stages I saw my Dad go through before he passed.
Doesn’t make it any easier.
Doesn’t make being home any less challenging.
Because everything screams she is not there.
It’s all so heartbreaking. I keep wanting to ring the vet who helped her sleep to give her an injection to make her come back alive. To erase the decision we made, even though it was absolutely the right decision … a decision that I think even Rosie wanted. Especially as kidney failure gives a cat about 30 days before it all ends in tragedy and we were close to that timeline being hit and yet I want to ignore all that as I just want her back.
Hell, I keep finding myself saying, “come on Rozzie” when we go to bed … expecting to hear her feet make a little sound as she jumps off wherever she was to follow us down the stairs. But the hardest thing … the thing that absolutely reinforces she’s not longer with us is that I no longer have to check the front door when I leave in the morning or get in at night.
Each day, as I was heading out to work, Rosie would come upstairs with me. While this was because she hoped for extra Friskies – despite I had just given them to her downstairs – I would end up giving her a couple more because I couldn’t resist her face and it was the best way to ensure she didn’t sneakily follow me out of the front door where she felt a compulsion to explore, even though she knew she wasn’t allowed to. And at night, when she heard my car come down the drive, she’d be waiting at the glass next to the front door where I would see her silently meow to me through the glass as a way of saying hello, before trying to get through my legs when I walked in.
Occasionally she’d succeed and then proceed to sit under mine – or Jill’s – car until finally getting bored [or tempted with treats of falling in reach of one of our arms] but it was a daily ritual and now I can keep the door wide open and it literally fucks with my head.
I miss it. I miss all the things she did.
Even the stuff that annoyed me … like coming into the lounge at night – when Jill and Otis were asleep – and literally screaming at me, telling me it was time to come downstairs to bed with her.
She did a lot of screaming, but over the years she ‘educated us’ to what each one meant.
One was that she wanted to sleep under our sheets in bed and needed us to lift them up for her to go underneath. One was that she was hungry and wanted us to hand deliver treats rather than eat the food in her bowl. One was for us to open the lounge doors so she could go and sit out on her special bean bag cat bed on the deck so she could look out on the trees and feel the sun on her fur. In fact, the only time she didn’t scream was when we were actively looking for her, fearing she had got out when we came home and didn’t realise.
She did do that a couple of times, but never went far. Or for long.
She knew where home was.
She knew how well she was cared for.
She was definitely not a stupid cat.
And that’s why I can’t think about getting another. At least not yet.
I did look for cats who needed adopting very soon after Rosie had gone, but then I realised I wasn’t doing it to replace her, but to replicate her and that is both impossible and unfair to whoever we adopted.
So we need time. And while this may all sound dramatic for a cat, I point you to the post I wrote about Denise – the woman that I need to apologise to. Who gave me a very early warning as to what this would feel like. Because a pet is not just for life, a pet adds to your life and Rosie was – and will forever be – my first animal family member and I’d do anything, as I would for Mum and Dad, to have her back. Even for one day.
So regardless who you are or what you’re doing, don’t take the good shit for granted.
Because as annoying as it can be, it is better than it not being there.
And that is why – despite having experienced death throughout my life – Mum, Dad and Rosie’s passing has been the most significant.
What is interesting is that at my age – which I recently heard described as ‘the youngest of the old bunch’ – I am heading towards more of that. Including, my own one day … albeit hopefully a long time away. But it does make you re-evaluate what is important and who is important, which is leading to a lot of discussions and considerations about the future we want to have rather than the future we will get given.
But while there is a lot of sadness in this post, I want you to know I’m not in a bad way.
I was, but not now.
Part of that is because we have Rosie’s ashes with us and weirdly, it feels like she’s home.
Not exactly as we would like.
But exactly where she belongs.
And that, I’m increasingly learning, is the real definition of happiness, fulfillment and success.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
This is the last post I’ll be writing for 2 weeks as I’m off on a ridiculous trip for work.
Across Canada. Across America. And a quick visit to Australia. Quite bonkers.
But I am eternally grateful for it. Not just because of the air miles, but because it is being organised by a client who wants me – and 3 colleagues – to really understand who they are.
The details. The nuances. The values. The realities.
At a time where so many clients want simple, superficial and easy, they’re going out of their way to make it difficult for all of us … but in the most brilliant, rewarding and valuable way ever.
And for that we’re all eternally grateful.
Not because it’s rare, but because it means they give a fuck about what who they are, what they do and what they want us to create together.
They’re invested in making something great, rather than just expecting excellence without contributing anything to it beyond deadlines, mandatories and distain.
And you know what this ‘in it together’ approach achieves?
A team very, very motivated to do something extraordinary for them.
That’s contrary to what many companies think is the way to work with agencies or partners these days. Believing that if they treat people like disposable commodities, they’ll get them to work even harder for them. Which means they value you nothing other than the price they pay for something.
And while I appreciate what we do costs a lot of money and so being on top of things is important, I’ll tell you what ends up costing a whole lot more: treating partners like shit. Not because they’ll stop caring about what they do, but because they know you don’t even care about who you are.
Which is why we’re thrilled to be going on this trip … because nothing shows commitment like inconvenience.
See you on the 29th … as there’s a holiday in Auckland on the 28th, hahaha.
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Dad, Death, Emotion, Empathy, Family, Love, Loyalty, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Childhood, Otis, Parents
Today would have been Dad’s 86th birthday.
That means he’s been gone 26 years.
What’s bizarre is I remember the last birthday he had – his 60th – so clearly.
The photo above is from that day.
Part of my reasons for remembering it is because I flew back from Sydney for it. Part of it is because we had bought him a special armchair that allowed him to get in and out of it with ease. And part of it is because he hardly had time to use it, because within months, he was back in hospital – except this time, it would be his final time.
And yet I look back on that day with love.
Sitting next to him.
Looking at his beloved garden.
Having some-sort of conversation about the plants … even though his strokes had robbed him of his ability to talk – bar individual words. In many ways, that was the cruelest thing of all given he was such a wonderful conversationalist. And yet he had – thanks to his tenacity, Mum’s care and speech therapy – found a way to pick out the most perfect word to express what he wanted to communicate. Including when you wish he hadn’t.
I remember when he was later in hospital and there was a male nurse.
Dad kept looking at him intensely and I asked if he wanted anything, to which he replied, “Hate him” very loudly. I don’t know why he felt so much distain towards this person, but he was not the sort to have such an emotional reaction towards anyone without merit.
Mind you, I also remember when another nurse asked him what night-time drink he wanted and he said, “gin” and then laughed proudly to himself for an age.
That is still one of the best memories from one of the worst times of our life.
But then that was Dad …
His ability to make people feel at ease regardless of the challenge they were experiencing.
I think I’ve written about the time he was driving a friend of mine back to their house and casually asked what his parents did for a living. My friend – we were about 15 at the time – replied that his Father had passed away to which Dad then asked what had happened.
I was fuming and embarrassed and told Dad that on the way home.
And while I knew he wouldn’t want to make anyone feel that way, I was angry he’d asked such a personal question to a friend of mine. And I felt that way right until Benny – my friend – told me a couple of days later how grateful he was my Dad had shown interest in him and his Dad because most people immediately changed the subject or just clammed up the moment they heard his Dad had passed.
This moment made a huge impact on me …
Challenging my perceptions and perspectives on how to communicate and interact with others … ultimately demonstrating the foundation of any relationship of worth – whether for life, work or a moment-in-time – is based on your ability to be conversationally intimate and honest.
Of course, to do that means you have to be authentic and considerate, but being interested in what other people are interested in – as opposed to wanting people to be interested in what you want them to be interested in – is the most powerful way to build understanding between people, even when you come from different worlds or perspectives.
That pretty much sums up my Dad and Mum.
The strength of character they had to be transparent and vulnerable
To enable others to feel at ease with their situation and themselves.
To be open to answers or perspectives that were different to theirs. Or even better, be open to their perspective to be changed because they see what works for someone else, doesn’t mean it has to work for them.
But you can only get to that place by creating the conditions for it.
To allow emotional safety.
It’s why I get so angry when people call emotions, a ‘weakness’.
The reality is, if it’s anything, it’s honesty.
A way to build bridges rather than walls.
Of course that doesn’t mean your view is the only right view. Nor does it mean you can act or react any way you want or choose. But it does mean you feel you can express your truth because you know it will be seen and heard by people who actually want to better understand who you are rather than judge what you do.
I got to experience that.
I got to experience that pretty much every day of my life.
And while I didn’t always get the outcome I hoped for. Or realise how amazing it was to be in a place where I was continually encouraged to express and connect. I now appreciate the power of listening to understand.
That should sound obvious, except it isn’t.
Too many people only listen to win. To find holes to poke, push and provoke.
And that’s led us to where we are … a world of division, arrogance, selfishness and blinkered, one-winner-must-take-all competition.
And yet the irony is, when you listen to understand … you still win.
It opens doors.
It creates relationships.
It allows good things to be born and shared.
I know that sounds hippy-like shit, but it’s true.
It’s the reason why Dad was such an amazing lawyer, because he fought for equality rather than one-sided victory.
Equality of rights … consideration … possibilities.
[And if anyone tried to stop that, he would make them pay. A lot. Haha]
Which explains why certain corporations/CEO’s hated him but their employees/families/unions were massive fans of him.
So even though today is Dad’s birthday, he – and Mum – gave me the greatest gift.
I don’t always live up to it, but I always will measure myself against it.
And I hope I can pass that on to Otis.
A gift from his grandparents … a way for them to be part of his life despite sadly never getting to be in his life.
Oh my god, they’d have absolutely loved to play that role and I’d have utterly adored seeing them live it. But alas, things don’t always go to plan … but they ensured their lessons and love remain and flourish.
And boy, do we ever need that right now.
Which is why, while it is Dad’s birthday, he – and Mum – gave me the greatest of gifts.
So Happy Birthday Dad, I love and miss you so much.
Give Mum a big kiss from me.
Rx
Filed under: Comment, Dad, Death, Emotion, Empathy, Family, Love, Loyalty, Mum, Mum & Dad
I know, I know … I said I was away for a week – and I am – but I couldn’t let today pass without me acknowledging it, because today is the 10th anniversary of my Mum passing.
I’ve written a lot about this over the bast decade.
From what happened … to how it messed with me … right thought to how it changed how I do things and look at things.
And while all those things are still there … a decade later the feelings are far less connected to darkness and far more about the light.
I have to say, I am so relieved.
Mum was a wonderful human.
Full of compassion and curiosity.
Driven by a real sense of respect and justice for all.
For a very gentle, quiet woman, she was a force that you felt through her actions, her choices, her emotions and – when necessary – her words.
But most of all, I think of Mum as an incredibly dignified person and nothing reflects this more than how she prepared for what she feared most.
You see Mum was going into hospital for a heart valve operation.
It was a pretty common procedure, but at 83, she was aware things could happen.
She’d already delayed the operation by a few months to ensure I could be with Jill when Otis was born – another example of her selflessness – but even though things had initially gone well, sadly the condition of her heart was far worse than expected and within an hour of coming out of theatre, it ruptured and Mum died.
I’m so, so grateful I was with her and that she knew that.
She’d told me a few months before that her greatest fear was that she may die alone – like her sister-in-law had tragically experienced.
And while I would give anything to have her back, knowing I was there – as I was with Dad – has definitely helped me deal with the loss.
But it’s what happened after she passed that reaffirmed one of her greatest traits.
Her dignity.
Something she valued very much. Even in death.
You see, when she had died, we were going through some draws back at her house. In there, I found a book she’d been compiling featuring all the account numbers associated with her, all the contact information of her friends, and a compilation of stories and articles that she wanted me to see or know if the worst happened.
To do that both blows me away and breaks my heart …
Blows me away for the incredible generosity of wanting to ensure in my darkest hour, I am not being further impacted by the complication of trying to find or access information.
Breaks my heart because not only did it represent her acknowledging the potential of her death, but that she did it alone.
I don’t know how she felt doing this, I just hope that any emotional struggle she felt was softened by knowing she was doing something that was important to her. Important because I – as her only son – was her world.
She never left me in doubt of that. Ever. Even when we had little disagreements over the years …
Because the undeniable fact was she loved me and I loved her.
And I still do.
I’m so grateful and honoured she was my Mum.
Which is why, as much as today is a connected to something deeply sad in my life – she’d be very happy to know, the feelings I have today are far more associated with love than tragedy.
For all she did.
For all she was.
For all she continues to be in my life.
I love and miss you so much Mum.
Give Dad a big kiss from me.
Rx