Tonight was the first night I’ve felt I needed central heating. I couldn’t find any food in the house bar two potatoes which I microwaved and then baked.
It’s the weirdest thing - something about dark, rainy nights and the smell of baking potatoes reminds me so strongly of the winter I went home and lived with my Dad. My Mum had left him for the guy who did our fencing and he was suicidal. As I had nothing going on up North apart from a job in a newsagents and a useless boyfriend, I offered to move home and keep an eye on him.
It was a ferocious winter, short days and hellish stormy nights. We took turns cooking a simple evening meal. We’d sit around watching TV, or reading, or I’d practice my guitar in the living room, and we’d smoke and get beers or whiskey in. We kept the wood burner well stoked and kept each other company - even if in comfortable silence.
In a way -the good I did for him, by just being there - he unknowingly returned to me. He gave me the time to reflect, step back from the mess I left in Nottingham, and he inspired me with his stories because we share a similar nature. He had his fair share of adventure, in Hong Kong and traveling in the forces, and he reminded me of how much good stuff was out there to experience if I only I made the effort again. And I did, which is another long story not worth re-telling here..
Anyway, this one is for you, Pa.