Fourteen Years.

 It's 14 years since my Dad died. Nearly a decade and a half without him in my life. For much of our time together I think we were a mystery to one another, but he never stopped me being confusing and odd. He let me do my own thing, however pointless and counter-intuitive that must have seemed to him. I never really wrote anything while he was alive - I certainly never showed anything to anyone. I hope he would have liked the stuff I'm doing now. My Mum saw one of my plays. I remain thankful for that. It would have been nice if they'd seen any of my films, or short stories. I know he loved Kelly and would have loved Susan, as my mum did, had he met her. 

I always imagined he thought my quixotic artistic attempts were nonsense, but when we were clearing the house after Mum died, I was deeply moved to find, folded into his old work briefcase, a pencil drawing I'd done of The Smiths when I was fifteen. It has the look of O level work, and Morrissey's face is rather doughy and snub nosed, but it's recognisably an accurate drawing of human beings. I don't even know if he knew who The Smiths were - I imagine he did - but it was so strange to find this was something he'd squirreled away. He must have liked it, though he would never have told me that. There were tears in my eyes that day, and I took the drawing home with me. I don't like it as a drawing, but he did. So now I love it.