A simple, complicated man

At times, the man can be the biggest fucking pratt in the world, but, it was dad who recognised my anguish, when, as a teenager, my body broke out of its lithe shell, and bloomed so...fully. At that time, it was dad who suggested and made happen our run each morning on the beach. It was dad that used to push me to run that little bit further or little bit faster, over the deep, sandy track of the dew-covered headland. It was dad that would stop in awe of the dolphins surfing and fishing close-in to shore, and then take off with a laugh as I stood distracted by his Delphinus ruse. It was dad who advised me in his gruff, half-arsed way to concentrate on my studies, reminding me that boys, alcohol and the job he would not let me take, would all still be there in a year or two. It was dad who, in the absence of my mother, bought the most divine Singapore orchid, and helped me pin it into my hair before my end of school formal. It was dad I told, before anyone else, that my marriage was over.

Dad may well be the biggest fucking pratt in the universe from time to time, but I reckon I often hold that title myself, in his opinion. Yet, here we are, over 37 years since we first clapped eyes on each other, and I imagine we are going to go on loving/hating each other for a long time still.

It's always in the last place you look

Most of you that read my scratchings here, know that this is not the first incarnation of Blissed. A while back, before things came to an end with my husband, we had a fight, which in itself was unusual, as we had never fought in our 11 years together (paraphrasing my therapist, you should always worry if there is no conflict).

Anyway, the fight started over something he'd read on the blog, and resulted in me deleting Blissed, just...like...that, no backup. Initially, I was okay with the decision to delete the blog, but after a while...well here I am.

Today, I found a file lurking in a dark and dusty corner of my wee hard-disk. Odd that it should be a post from the original Blissed. Please indulge me while I post it again.

When I was a kid, every year, at least twice a year, my family would holiday at the same place. It was a small coastal town, sleepy and peaceful out-of-season, busy as hell over summer. Usually, we would meet up with another couple of families, so there were always friends at hand, they were boys, but I was a tomboy, so that was okay. But when I got sick of them, or they of me, I enjoyed making holiday-friends at the caravan park in which we always camped. Strangers from strange places, were always more interesting than the known quantities. We were kids on bikes, in the bbq smoke-haze of the early evening, in our pyjamas for a final cavort before bed, where the giggles persisted until sleep claimed us.

Fishing was the main pastime of the men-folk. I loved it too, so I would fish by my dad's side for hours, on those white as white, squeaky-sand beaches. Our lines were often heavy with bream, skipjack, whiting and the occasional flathead. Their silver bodies darted and flapped in the azure water as we wound them in, little mouths gasping for water as we de-hooked them and buried them in the sand, to keep them fresh. My dad taught me to clean fish when I was really little, and after a while, this was my job. Each fish was a mini-anatomy lesson, and I loved doling out the gut-largesse to the rabid seagulls, that flocked hitchcock-like around me as I cleaned. I could gut fish but I never could eat them.

The holiday town is relatively unchanged in 30 years, I still visit it, as my parents now live there. The other day I bought a bag of mixed lollies from our corner store (it is literally at our nearest corner), and in it, I found these:

I was instantly transported back to the caravan park, in the not quite dark, of a hot summer evening, a kid again in a gang of bikes, without a care in the world, ensuring I stayed out of earshot of my mother, lest she send me to bed. My kids got really peeved with me when I ate the teeth, but hey, memories like that are to good to pass up on.