Like many 70-year-old men from the north of England, my dad isn’t one for emotions. I don’t recall him ever telling me that he loves me. Compliments are always thin on the ground.
So like many children of 70-year-old men from the north of England, I have to assume that a) he does, and b) he thinks I’m doing all right.
A couple of years ago, my dad bought a woodturning lathe. He started out by making small wooden pots, coat hooks and vases, that type of thing. Being long-retired, he’s had plenty of time to practise and now, his shed looks like a fully-fledged joiner’s workshop. He bloody loves it.
And he’s made me a pen. Out of wood. A lump of cherry that he found lying about in the garden. At my childhood home.
This is about as close as I’m ever going to get to an emotional outpouring. I know that he’s been quietly impressed that I’ve been able to turn a pretty shitty situation into a rather better one.
I run my own writing business. So he made me a pen. Pretty cool.
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