In which I realise how young my dad was.
It’s been a strange couple of days.
Between the beast from the east and storm Emma keeping us house bound the last couple of days, the internet going for two of them, and the electricity going for just over twelve hours, it’s been eventful.
Yesterday I found myself, in a rare moment of calm, thinking about my dad.
I looked over at K and realised for the first time that my dad was so young when he died.
In a year, K will be the same age that my dad was when he died.
In less than ten years, so will I.
Nothing is guaranteed, but.
He was so young.
It never really sunk in before, because like all children, I always saw my dad as much older than me. Ancient really.
This larger than life man who was the life and soul of every party, who loved his music and his style and his drink, was so fecking young.
And the closer I get to the age he was when he died, the stranger it gets.
And the younger he becomes.