I think you would be proud of me at the moment. Not only have I bought a carpet (after measuring the dimensions of the spare room*). I've matched up the shades, arranged to have it delivered, AND I even removed the dirty rank red old carpet. I didn't cart it off to the dump though, that was a job for Huw.
At the moment I'm considering going upstairs and making a start of laying the damn thing down. It's been sitting there all week. I know this sounds silly, but I'm a bit scared to.
The thing is, I've arranged to buy/ borrow the tools to do this, I've got instructions from all over the net to show me how to do this. But what I don't have is you.
I suppose what I am trying to work out, is that I don't know if I should be proud you've given me the 'up and go' to even think about tackling DIY jobs such as this, or sad that I don't have you to call upon and come get you to do it for me.
In the years leading up to the stroke we had an unspoken agreement. I would call you when I needed something doing (about once a month), you would protest, pretend I'd got in the way, but then turn up the very same day, or the next day to get it done.
The unspoken agreement would be that actually, you got to be Dad again in my very almost grown up life. You got to teach me a skill, show me how you'd do it, then we would quietly work alongside each other to get it done. I liked knowing I still needed you, and you liked knowing you were still needed, and this is what we never said, we just did.
This happened several times, and each time made me all warm n fuzzy, and proud you were my dad.
First time was sorting the door in the flat I'd moved into. There is a thing in our families that everyone looks after their front door. The door was chipped, unloved, and draughty when I moved in. I wanted to paint the door bright blue. You didn't think it was a good idea but you did it anyway. You took a day off to buy materials, buy the paint I wanted and then set about sanding the door and painted it. You told me I couldn't use holiday and I still had to go to work. When I got home, I walked up the road and you were standing in front of my house, hands in pockets, looking satisfied.
I helped you paint the final coat then I took you to dinner. I complained I didn't think the door was secure/ safe enough. So the next weekend you huffed and we took a shopping trip to the hardware store. We bought an extra latch. I wanted to buy a draught excluder and you wouldn't let me.
Instead when we got back, you took an old curtain grandad had given me, and magically produced a sewing kit you had smuggled in. In the space of a cup of tea and cake, you had made me my very own draught excluder. Of course it did the job, you smiled. I love that draught excluder. I have it now by the front door always, it reminds me to not spend when I don't need to.
Most of all, it reminds me of you. Of your hidden talents (who knew you were a better sewer than mum?!), but also of your need to make do.
The flat had an overgrown garden. It was awful. You told me what I needed to buy. Then on the day you turned up with all the gear, and my brother, and gloves for all my housemates. All day we worked together in the spring sun, drinking homemade lemonade (your favourite), eating victoria sponge (our favourite) and I saw you come to life.
You didn't bark orders, you explained to each of the housemates what you were doing, why you were doing it, why even though we didn't own this damp, overpriced flat, the job should be done properly. You worked quietly alongside my housemates boyfriend, after singling him out- you joked he was the only one capable of heavy lifting and he had to help. He didn't even question you, he just put the gloves on. You taught him about laying paving stones, and planting bulbs, and applying weed killer. You let my brother do his thing arranging the plants quietly. You encouraged me to get my hands dirty but nagged me to take pictures too.
That night, when we sat down exhausted and covered in mud. You asked where the housemates boyfriend's dad was- he you didn't think he was around. He didn't say it to you, but you knew it. I confirmed that was true, he had killed himself when he was a little boy. You smiled. You said you had given him your gloves to keep. You thought it was cool he had asked so many questions, but you had all the answers. You could tell he wanted to be taught something practical. You were happy to help. He was planning on doing his own garden, so you wanted him to keep the gloves.
Then you explained you thought my brother had a talent for gardening and that's why you had wanted me to take pictures of today, so he had the start of his portfolio. You thought he needed a push to get some confidence and make a career out of it. Four years later, he has, and a pretty good one at that. And then I realised. You weren't just being a dad to me that day, but to everyone. And that was the lesson you had to tick off, that you'd decided that day. Not only were you going to help me out, but this opportunity would help my brother too. And when you arrived and saw this other man needed guidance too, you gave it, all whilst getting the job done. I think back now and think you were incredible that day.
Mostly when I think about the year in that flat, I think about you. You had just dealt with your first baby leaving the family home, but you found a way still to make me feel protected, and safe, even when you weren't there. I realise now that's not just being an amazing Dad, that was your way of dealing with the change of me moving out too.
So now, I'm sitting in the middle of this room, with a laid out carpet, double sided tape, and a stanley knife from the pound shop. You know what Dad, sod it. I'm going to give it a go. I'm not going to sit here and be sad about it. That I can't call you and ask you to do it with me. I'm going to do it myself. I'm going to ope the toolbox you gave me, that my boyfriend looks wide eyed and scared at. And even if its a bodge job, feel happy I gave it a go. And then I'm going to call you and tell you what I did. In the hope we'll have one of our unspoken conversations, and I'll feel as proud of us as I should do.
I love you Sausage Fingers.
Lx
*I lied about the measuring bit. You know I'm crap with numbers. I got a bloke who was at our house who knew about carpets to do it for me. Hey, its resourceful at least!
