Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Comment, Dad, Daddyhood, Family, Fatherhood, Jill, Love, Otis
I was going through some photos when I came across this …
It feels like a million years ago, but it’s less than 2 years ago.
It was taken around Christmas 2020 …
We were living in England and we’d recently bought that house.
We knew we weren’t going to be in it for long as I’d accepted the job at Colenso … but we wanted to enjoy it as much as we could while we were there.
And so we did.
But the snow added a new dimension to the experience.
It came down a lot over a few short days and so for the first time since I had left the UK 25 years earlier, I was in a place that had enough snow to mess about with. For Otis, it was the first time he could … the first time he properly experienced snow … and after he’d accepted it was bloody cold, it was a bloody challenge to get him back indoors.
Oh the fun.
Snowball fights.
Building snowmen.
Slipping and sliding.
It was amazing.
All topped off by us getting into our giant hot tub in the garden to get warm, while it snowed around us … which was a bizarre – yet awesome – feeling.
And while that house is pretty much isolated in the countryside, so the small roads were all ice rinks, something about that week made the whole thing even more special for us.
A chance to connect to that house. To build a memory with that house. To be a family home.
And yet, when I saw that photo it seemed like another life.
A world away from the one we live in now.
Yet it’s still our home.
We may well one day return to it.
And we still utterly love it and its garden.
Lots of people talk about their ‘forever home’. I get it …
But the reality is while a place you grow roots in, is very important … the thing we forget is we have to do the work. It doesn’t happen by itself. Those 4 walls require the interaction of the people in it to build something worth remembering it for.
And while that house only had us in it for 6 months [so far] that photo will forever remind me that sometimes, that’s all you need.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Comment, Dad, Death, Family, Fatherhood, Home, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Nottingham, Otis
A few weeks ago, I saw a tweet by the comedian, David Baddiel.
It was this.
It was late, but there was something about it that really touched me.
Of course, hearing a parent has died is always sad. And over the years, my stance on Mr Baddiel has gone from ‘annoying’ to ‘wonderful’. But I think it was the sight of the worn chair that got me. A reminder of a parent who preferred comfort over new. A father who saw the chair worn in rather than worn out. An extention of the parent rather than just another piece of furniture in the home.
I definitely related to that.
I still remember going into Mum’s bedroom after she died – the bedroom that my shared my entire childhood – and saw it was a bit worn out. Needed some care, some attention, some updating. But what’s interesting is that while I’d been in that room a million times, it was only then that I the condition. Because when my parents were in that room … in that bed … the whole room radiated love and life and all the worn paint and old carpet disappeared from view.
But I also know how important it is to hold on to some of that.
Getting rid of your parents belongings is devastating.
I definitely remember genuinely considering hiring a security guard to just sit outside the house so I could keep it exactly the way it was. Hell, I even tried to buy the home phone number from British Telecom, or whatever they’re called these days – so I would have a connection to my past … to my parents … forever.
Jill gently convinced me that wasn’t the best way to move forward. Reminded me that wouldn’t be what my parents would want. But she also knew I needed to keep a physical connection to them and that house … so she came up with a brilliant idea that I thought may help a man I don’t know, get through a terribly painful situation I do know all too well.
So I responded to him with this and went to sleep.
The next morning I woke up to my phone screen full of twitter notifications and saw this.
Thousands of likes.
Hundreds of comments.
A mass of retweets.
I couldn’t quite believe it.
And when I read the comments, every single one was positive.
No snark. No pisstaking. Just a mass of lovely, considerate, words. Which was more wonderful than I could ever have imagined, because as much as it’s nice to have something you said/did liked by so many, what made the biggest impact was so many people saying they now had a way to take their family and home with them, when their family and home are no longer there.
A bit of calm in the worst of storms.
And since I wrote this post, the number of people who liked it and commented on how this can help them deal with their grief has increased more and more.
So thank you Jill.
You helped not just make one of my hardest times, less dark, you have helped others see a way out of their darkest moment.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Agency Culture, Anniversary, Attitude & Aptitude, China, Colenso, Comment, Creativity, Culture, Effectiveness, Environment, Family, Jill, Love, New Zealand, Otis, Rosie
A year ago today, Jill, Otis, Rosie and I left our beautiful family home – that we only had bought and moved into 6 months earlier – to get on a plane for the first time in over a year and fly to the other side of the planet to start a new life in New Zealand.
Now of course, because Kiwiland is so fucking far away from everywhere, it took us 2 days to get here which means we’ve not officially been here a year … but if you will excuse the early anniversary, it still something I wish to celebrate.
Despite having moved countries more times than anyone should be allowed to … the build up to this move was the most stressful we’d ever had.
Of course, the reason for that was bloody COVID … but with changing rules, changing flights and changing timelines, it felt like an impossible dream when we boarded the plane 12 months ago today.
Then there was the 2 weeks of quarantine we had in Hamilton.
While it was restrictive, it was actually an amazing way to settle in a country because whether we liked it or not, we were not allowed to do anything.
Normally when we land in a country, it’s mayhem trying to learn the areas, find a house, buy a car. But this time it was easy, mainly because – in a moment of madness – we had bought a house and a car when we were in England.
While that might sound mad, the car was easy because it was simply the latest version of the car I bought in the UK. Which was the same as I bought in the US. Even down to the colour.
As for the house … OK, that was bonkers, but sadly for our bank manager, that wasn’t the first time we’d done it.
But it all worked out.
Not just in terms of house and car, but life.
We’re settled.
Otis loves his school.
Jill loves we live in the trees.
Rosie loves she can watch birds all day.
I love the talented mob I get to work with each day.
Colenso has done some lovely stuff – but it’s only the start – but we’ve won some global business, awards and a bunch of friends [not to mention the odd bitter enemy] but even more importantly, is that I’ve lucked in with the people I get to work with each day.
What a top bunch they are … with a special mention for my wonderful team who are a bunch of beautifully opinionated, creative and interesting assholes.
Just as I like them. [Most of the time, hahaha]
In fact the only thing that has been horrible has been the timezone … which means when I’m doing my Metallica duty or Gentle Monster duty, it ends up being so early or late I could cry.
Actually, for the first few weeks I probably did in shock … but now it’s second nature and they’ve all been ace. Hell, even the 4+ months of lockdown didn’t dampen our spirit.
Sure, we had travelled half way around the World to end up back where we started … but COVID here was very different to COVID in the UK.
Here there was a plan with clarity and communication.
And while people here say there’s a bunch of stuff the government could have done better – which, in some cases, is fair – compared to what we experienced in the UK, it’s all A+.
While we know we won’t be in NZ forever, we do love it here.
We are so appreciative of the chance we have been given … even more so when so many Kiwi’s have found it so hard to come back. NZ has been generous, supportive, open and encouraging. Hell, not only did they let me meet Noel Edmonds, James Cameron and brilliant Jacinda, they even looked after us when we all individually found ourselves having to go into hospital. In terms of ensuring you can deal with the sadness of not seeing friends and loved ones, NZ did it with absolute bloody panache.
I hope in our time here, we are seen as contributing to the nation. We want to do that so much. Celebrate it. Honour it. And – where possible – help it. Not just so we can learn and know more about this special place, but so we can say thank you for letting us be here.
Happy [almost] anniversary NZ.
You might wish it hadn’t happened, but we’re glad it did.
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.’
Filed under: Childhood, Comment, Dad, Family, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, New Zealand, Otis, Parents
So today would have been my beloved Mum’s 90th birthday.
NINETY!!!
My god, it seems impossible.
What’s bizarre is that while Mum died at age 83, I never considered her old.
She looked very well.
She was active and sharp.
She retained a huge interest in what society was interested in.
But of course, underneath her heart was failing – more specifically one of her valves was.
And yet despite that, I still find the idea of her turning 90 shocking, even though it’s just 7 years on from when I last saw her.
Of course a lot can happen in 7 years.
7 years ago we were living in China.
I was working at Wieden+Kennedy.
And we’d just become parents.
To think in-between then and now we’ve moved country 3 times, I’ve changed jobs 3 times, we’ve called 4 houses home and I’ve entered a world of creativity where I’m interacting with individuals/bands I never would have imagined in a billion years I’d be working with … I guess seven years has a lot of capacity for change.
But despite all that, I remember my time with my Mum clearly.
The good. The not so good. The happy. The devastating.
But underpinning all of that is just what a brilliant human and Mum she was.
From playing tennis with me on our small patio in the back garden through to encouraging me to still go on my life adventure when she so easily could have asked me to stay … my Mum’s selflessness was one of her defining characteristics.
As I wrote when she died, this generosity towards others continued after she passed.
I still remember finding a notebook where she had meticulously detailed all the account numbers, phone numbers and people I should contact now she was gone.
Which means in the lead-up to the operation we hoped would give her a better life, she was preparing for it maybe not to.
That breaks my heart.
The idea of her being alone in the house, writing these things out for me is almost too much to cope with.
That she could deal with her mortality with so much dignity, grace and love for me … that she would put her emotions to one side to make sure life would be easier for me, in my darkest moments … is a definition of love that is overwhelming in its generosity.
She even had found the time to cut out articles on people I knew from my childhood that she wanted me to know better.
Who would do that?
I’ll tell you who … my Mum.
My beautiful, kind, compassionate and loving Mum.
And today she would have been 90.
God I wish she was here to celebrate it.
We’d either all be in the UK or we would have brought her here.
She would love this house. The quiet … the nature … the peacefulness.
And as much as she loved our home, maybe she would have been in the right frame to make a leap. To come live with us.
I don’t know. Mum was fiercely independent so maybe she’d be against it, but I have a feeling there would have been a chance.
Towards the end, we had found a new rhythm to live by. We’d always had a wonderful relationship but over the years a few niggles had entered into our interactions. Nothing much. Likely less than most. But when you have never had it, you notice it more.
However the last few years were different. It’s as if we had finally recognised that the things that irritated one another weren’t being done to annoy one another … they were simply our ways of trying help each other, even if we didn’t understand it. And from that moment, a new peace and acceptance came. It felt good. Conversations that had previously triggered us, were now open and easy. It was lovely and it’s for that reason I think Mum may have said yes to coming to live with us.
Sure, the house we live in doesn’t have the garden of the house she helped us buy, but I think she’d like it just the same.
I hope so.
I know it is a long way from England, but she was up for going to the North Pole to see the Northern Lights when she was 80.
So I’ll be thinking of that today when I celebrate her milestone.
Her, living in the house with her son, her daughter-in-law, her grandson and cat-in law.
Ahem.
Because while I know she’s not on this earth, she remains with me and that is some comfort.
It’s why I have 90 yellow roses being delivered to work today.
So 90 people in the office can take one in her honour.
To give to a loved one to show how much they mean to them.
Something that lets my Mum’s spirit be alive in the World.
Because while I know she wouldn’t like the attention, she would forgive me for the sentiment.
So Happy 90th birthday to you, my dearest Mum.
I love and miss you so much.
Give Dad a big kiss from me.
And know I am so glad you were my Mum.
Rx