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.

Perhaps

This picture was the subject of another post over at Pleasant Ave a while back.

Looking at the couple, you might assume they have sat on that beach, together, yet apart, every summer Saturday for the past 50 years. Except of course, for the years that they spent out of the country, working in Singapore and Italy. And of course, not the year that their first child drowned at Palm Beach.

He worked hard and long hours, enjoying golf and the beach in his time off. She was a teacher when they met, at a dance held at the surf-club 100 meters from where they sit now. She left teaching and stayed at home to raise their 5 children. She enjoyed weaving as a hobby, in the seventies and eighties. He secretly disliked her woven creations, and was not saddened by the recent replacement of her formal-lounge monstrosity, with a Guy Gilmour original.

His busy working life, is now a not-so-quiet retirement, what with all those grand-children to mind now and then (all the time). She is still busy, having replaced caring for her own children, with caring for grand-children, and volunteer work teaching disadvantaged children to swim.

Lately, she has noticed that he sometimes forgets words. She lies awake at night worrying for him, and still he refuses to see a doctor. He has noticed himself that he sometimes forgets words, he'd just rather not know what that means. And secretly, he loathes that rainbow umbrella and the constant attention of strangers it draws to them, as they sit, together, yet apart, on their beach.

OK, OK, OK

According to the texta toting extrasensory, everything will be OK. I'm willing to go with that.

Friends

It has been my experience in life, that good friends are hard to come by. I do not let people into my life easily, but for these people, I let down my guard almost instantly. These friends are some of my best, they would help me with anything, and their wives are twice as amazing. I love my friends. And the absolute best part of that, is knowing that they love me also.