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  • My father was a man who could mend and fix anything.

    Houses and hearts.

    We moved, when I was a child, from wreck to wreck. In each house, regardless of duration of residence, my mother made a home and my father fixed the house. Plumbing, electrics, tiling, floorboards and roofing. And then he would turn a tidy profit and we'd all move on.

    I have such clear memories of him and his screwdrivers and his ability to be totally present in his now, whenever he attended fixing.

    Cigarette in mouth, calling for a child or two to help, a labourers whistle all weekend.

    This fixing he did was not his career. No. It was his hobby. Through the workday week he worked long long hours as a sales director of a car componentry organisation. He was exemplary at his job.

    In the evenings, through the week he would, with my mother, drink and smoke, and complete crosswords and read, gazing over his glasses with enormous pride at his five children.

    I loved him.

    He was a fixer. He had the ability to see things through to the end, to examine every possibility, to problem solve to get the result he wanted. Every. Single.Time.

    He was perceptive and observant and whilst he had many many faults, I adored him, and miss him, still.

    He did not take care of his health, nor was he good at confrontation.

    He was a salesman and a writer and good at both. He was a raconteur.

    I read over these qualities that I remember in him, the characteristics that were prominent to me as a child, as a teen, and now, as I look upon him through adult eyes, onto my own family.

    And I realise. Like father like daughter.
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