Two years ago my dad died. Although the anniversary of the date is no cause to get all maudlin, we're out for dinner tonight - more to take mum's mind of things than dredge up the horror of watching someone we love wither and die right in front of our eyes. Odd how the last two years have gone by in a flash but the physical act of standing in that hospital room seems like aeons ago. The more I think about him, and his tireless efforts to bring home the bacon while doing a hum drum job that left so little time for much else, the more I ponder on the futility of merely going through the 24-hour-a-day motions of life. I wonder when he resigned himself to the fact that he'd work at the same place for over 25 years? He was, like so many of us, a gent utterly defined by his profession. Surely he must've muttered, when he pruned his roses, "is this it?" I wish I'd asked him what he thought. It appears the date, after all, is an excuse to get maudlin.
Special date in the calendar aside, there's writing to do today. As ever, I've left it all until the last minute and have allowed my head to drift in the clouds for far too long (the physical act of writing has taken up around 5 per cent of the time I've devoted to the play). Nick, the co-director, has sent me a very supportive email along with some good suggestions. So, once more into the abyss...
Listening: James Blunt - Back to Bedlam. Loving: M. Missing: Edward James Windass.
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