Sogger’s Blog

The article I am most proud of on this site was written about my dad. Writing it allowed me to express something that I hope one day, before it is too late, I will be able to say (to him!) out loud (or let him read, as we would probably both die of embarrassment).

As I mentioned in the article, he was coming to visit us. Well, now he’s here. We’ve been through the ice-breaking Manchester City performance conversation (surprisingly good) and the weather (surprisingly bad - did I say he’d had a run of bad luck?).

However, there was something hanging in the air between us…we both knew what it was (reading the original article will give you a clue if you can’t wait for another line or so), but neither of us could bring ourselves to mention it.

After 2 days we cracked: I dropped in references to the difficulty of painting the fascia around the outside of the house before winter set in, and he pointed out that the walls were a bit dirty above the radiators and where the paintings of the previous owner had hung.

I swore (in writing to a whole community of readers - I know of at least 3 now!) that I would never, ever, under any circumstances ask him to do any decorating for me - after 45 years he deserved a break.

But he offered, honestly, I swear, I never asked. OK, I dropped subtle hints: I bought a pot of paint and some brushes, looked at the price of ladders (damned expensive) and left the catalogues lying around, but surely he would never pick up on this? You don’t believe me? You know me too well already…

I’m selfish, lazy, exploitative and currently feeling extremely guilty, but, on the bright side, I have a very nicely painted interior.

Now, I just need to get that fascia painted before winter sets in…

You haven’t read “Lord of the Flies”!!! A truly great and disturbing novel. You probably don’t know me, but trust me, read it.

That said, this week I have been off work and looking after my two sons. One is pre-disposed to cutting wit and the other is pre-disposed to upper-cutting. Chaos theory reigns in our house. A moment of sibling harmony can degenerate into violence for no apparent reason. Those who know us know that this is only slightly exaggerated. I realised that the only way to get through the week with my sanity still hanging on by a thread was to keep them on the brink of extreme fatigue and therefore too tired to wind each other up. Hence, daily visits to the swimming pool.

Anyway, this set me thinking about the above-mentioned classic. I wondered what would happen if the two of them were left alone in the house with no other company (or possibility thereof)? Would they find a balance that would see them co-operate and get through it as a team? Or would it spiral out of control as in the novel? An interesting thought experiment, but one the social services would not look too favourably upon “I’m a scientist conducting a serious experiment…”

I suspect that sibling rivalry lies at the heart of it all and that when it comes down to it, brotherly-acceptance (I wouldn’t go as far as saying “brotherly love”) would overcome and I would return to find them hopping from one leg to the other in the manner of “Lord of the Dance” rather than hopping from one leg to the other after some kind of knee-capping attempt.

On the bright side, my breast-stroke has come along nicely this week - there is a hint of tautness in my pectoral sagginess…

So yeah, I’ve already said loads of times that we just moved house. I’ve also said that I’ve been doing some painting and catching up on some dodgy old music. I also did a lot of thinking. One of my recurring thoughts was that “painting and decorating is extremely dull”.

I also thought about a comment I made recently on another website. This guy had a full blown argument with his father over a trivial matter. My response was that the real reason for the argument may have deeper roots; all very “Marjorie Proops“. I also said that, in general, my conversations with my father didn’t get past the fortunes of Manchester City (which are never good) and the weather (not very often good either).

Bear with me, there’s a link coming here…

My dad was a painter and decorator for 45 years. 40 of which he spent painting hospital walls! I can’t imagine how that can have been. I cannot face any more after 3 days. How could he stand it? Do you know what: I’ve never even asked him. It’s so obvious that he hated his work and couldn’t wait to retire. Even more, 1 month after retiring - 1 month - he is diagnosed with prostate cancer.

To summarise: My dad left school at 14, got a job as an apprentice painter, was bullied so much that I can tell it still hurts and left him painfully shy, then painted hospital walls for 40 years, before retiring and being told he had cancer 1 month later.

Through all that time, he never seemed outwardly depressed and was the model father - school plays, football matches, he was there for the rest of his family. But what did I do to thank him? Sod all.
Worse, I “grow up” and buy a house and what’s the first thing I say on the phone (after the opening gambits of Manchester City and weather): “Can you come around this weekend and wallpaper the living room..?”. I am even now fighting the urge to ask him to do a spot of painting when he comes over to see us in September.

He deserves better, much better - I’ve got to find a way to pay him back - maybe a Manchester City scarf or one of those flashy weather stations?

Or maybe one day I’ll tell him he’s my hero…