Cannot think. Can barely speak. Am tired beyond comprehension. Was tired yesterday after the mad social lives of Boy 1 and Boy 2 these holidays but then last night, well last night was a disaster. Boy 1 suffered nightmares, sleepwalking and anxiety, Boy 2 came down in the late hours, unable to sleep without Boy 1. I ended up on lounge, then gave up and did computer stuff instead.
So please forgive if todays warm and fuzzy five family entry is purely fuzzy. I am in a fog.
And when I am tired and feeling wussy I think about my Dad. Grumblebum, the eternal pessimist (yes Big Boy, I do KNOW where it comes from).
I wrote about us here. True story, and one of my first and fondest memories of GB. Other, more vague recollections, are of being carried along the beach on GB's broad shoulders feeling as tall as a giant; and of climbing up his trouser leg when he would not pick me up as demanded. He smelled of cigarette smoke and Brylcream and had a loud, booming voice.
Grumblebum was a big man in every way. Stood six foot two, wore XXXL at one stage later in life. Until the cancer shrank him back down to an XL. Even at his funeral we needed six pallbearers to carry his diminished frame.
Straight shooter, typical no bull cow cocky (though Wise Woman made him move to town for her). Worked hard all his life. Played hard too. Was of the era that the blokes went to the club whilst the little woman stayed home. Of course once I hit eighteen that all changed. When I was little they called me "Dad's Boy", being the mad tomboy I loved it. When I grew up it became "The Offsider". Just as appreciated.
One of his proudest moments was me up on stage at my wedding calling the barn dances. Well someone had to take control, the bloody DJ had no idea and the whole thing was rapidly turning into a shemozzle. So I did. And he loved it. Dad's Boy in her full wedding regalia, microphone in hand..."with a one-two-three kick, back two-three kick..."
A chip off the old block.
I love you Dad, I even miss the arguments, you cranky old bugger.
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