I'm writing this on Sunday 21st July 2013, this time thirteen years ago I still had a Dad, in fact at about this time we were in the process of having a party in his honour, he was a popular man and the pub we'd hired was packed with people. The last night he was alive he didn't even seem ill yet within a few short hours he would lose his battle against a brain tumour. He was fun, always joking, always singing, he was a self employed mechanic by day but by night he was a compere, a showman.
I've talked about him before, that was when I was describing him calling me into his bedroom to watch him take his top off in the dark. It's entirely innocent, honest. I have better stories about him than that, I'll share them one day, they're pretty funny.
I had drafted half a post about the day he died, the day my heart smashed into a million pieces but just writing it in my notebook made me weep so I'm going to give typing it up a miss. Besides, you don't want to read that anyway, do you?
Instead of such a maudlin post and as it's the anniversary of his death I thought I'd post a picture of a photograph that sits on my chest of drawers in the bedroom.
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