I’ve learnt a lot of strange stuff from my father. I can’t wait to teach it to my kids someday.
He taught me ‘when you get off the train, walk in the same direction as everyone else’. I still do. Works in airports too.
He told me ‘unplug the toaster before you ever stick a fork in it’.
And the invaluable, underappreciated gem that is: ‘when the toilet roll is wrong, and you think some eejit in the loo roll factory put it together arseways, just flip the top sheet over to the back – fixed.’
He taught me all the keyboard shortcuts I’ll ever need to know.
He taught me about the stars (that they’re worth looking at). He taught me about volume (that cool trick with the glass, the tissue, and the basin of water).
He taught me that a potato will bake faster if you stick a nail through the middle.
My Grandfather taught me the most important lesson I’ll ever learn. After breaking up with a fella I’d lived with for three years, he sat down and told me that a breakup is like a bereavement. That you’re saying goodbye to the life you had as well as the future you thought you’d share. That day, he told me that the most important quality you should look for in another person is integrity. He’s never been wrong, and at 81 years old that’s quite a record.
The mirror in the bathroom of my parent’s house has ‘Hi Beautiful’ etched in soft seductive cursive on it’s top left-hand corner. It’s taller than any of us are, so when we stand in front of our reflections the words appear above our heads.
I’ve never questioned my beauty – I have days when I wish I were slimmer, or my skin was clearer, or I owned an entire new wardrobe, but I’ve never once doubted the fact that I’m attractive. My parents gave me two great gifts, and my self-confidence in one of them.
The other is a love of literature, of the written word, of the touch and feel and smell of books. A beautifully bound, perfectly weighted, sympathetically illustrated hardback book will have my hand reaching for my credit card and my heart lifting to the skies.
It’s rare to find a man who can interest me as much as a good novel.
SO, that’s it.
It was never perfect, no champagne breakfasts or impromptu getaways. Just lots of pints and late night takeaways.
But I loved him, and he’s decided to spread his budding wings and taste the beer somewhere else. I remember talking about how over protective his family can be, and asking ‘What’s the worst that could happen to him? He might fall off his stool.’
Because it was a relationship built on a damp foundation of spirits and soggy chips. Neither of us have a clear recollection of the first night we spent together, and I doubt he has any recollection of the last.
He ended it. ‘What’s the point dragging it out?’ he asked. What indeed.
I’ll miss it, and HIM, and those gorgeous jeans. And the thumb-wars, and the smile in his voice, and his unique combination of masculinity and sensitivity… a man who’d run from moisturiser, disinfectant or any hair product apart from Brylcreem* but who was once heard to say ‘I love hugs.’
A man who has made me happy, been my companion for almost a year, and was very definitely on his way to being my best friend. Just in time then.
A break-up is always a bit like a bereavement, my bereaved Grandfather once said. He’d know better than I would. But it’s not just goodbye to the pirate, it’s goodbye to the dreams. The family we imagined together, the holidays we planned, the life we wanted.
C’est fin.
*he’s Irish
