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  • I hero worshiped my Dad when I was a child.

    He was a constant presence in an otherwise chaotic world.

    He was patient and never raised his voice; he left that to my mother.
    He took my side when my mother treated me badly.

    He would sit at home solving the Times crossword puzzles or watching wrestling on the TV roaring with laughter. He would take me to the library and to cinema to see cartoons (see my story A Weekend With My Daddy 1956).

    He told funny stories and mimicked Laurel Hardy; putting on a funny smile and scratching his head.

    But when I grew up it all changed. He could not deal with the fact that I had a woman's body and was too embarrassed to hug me. He did not understand my adolescent moods and the rows I had with my mother.

    I saw a man who was a shadow of his former self. This photo shows him in a group (2nd from the right, back row)with his brother, (first on the left in the front row) and his brother's fiance - from the time his brother was lost, believed dead, during World War Two my father did not believe he deserved much from life and let my mother bully him.

    I was very angry when he died that his life was over shadowed by my mother's needs. Now I understand that he truly loved her and saw her how she was when he first met her.

    I wish I had the chance to talk to him now I am older and wiser. But I do share sunsets and jokes with him.
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