Miss you, Dad.

There's nothing I wouldn't do to hear your voice again.
Sometimes I want to call you, but I know you won't be there.

Are you looking down upon me? Are you proud of who I am?
There is nothing I wouldn't do to have just one more chance
To look into your eyes and see you looking back.

Father's Day

It's Father's Day, the day every year I try not to get too bitter at having lost him.

When I was a kid, sometimes during half-term holidays I used to go to his work with him, when he was a German lecturer.

One day I sat in his class when they were doing an aural comprehension exercise, which in this case involved listening to a song and answering questions about it.

To keep me from too much boredom, I joined in with the class and listened to the song on headphones, and for some reason it totally captivated me. I made him put it on a tape for me and I listened to it again and again through my early childhood. My obsession with listening endlessly to quirky and odd pieces of music still hasn't waned to this day.

Then I remember coming home from University once and asking Dad if he still had the song on tape anywhere. He hunted round, found it and played it, and we listened to it again. This time, I asked what it was about, and it was totally disillusioning to find out that it's pretty reprehensible. The gist of it is a man telling his children not to play with the gypsy children in the woods, because they were naughty and dirty, but to play with their brothers instead. I was gutted, that this song I had so adored, was so offensive.

But, for the sake of nostalgia, here it is. My genius brother found this and we're pretty sure it's the very version we used to listen to.



'Spiel nicht mit den Schmuddelkindern' sung by Franz-Josef Degenhardt.

Chinese Takeaway

It is three years today since my Dad died.

In so many ways it's still so hard. Some things have got easier, the coping day-to-day with the loss, but when the pain hits, it still hits just as hard as ever.

The more photography I do, the sadder I feel that I can't share it with him. When I discover a great new recipe or learn an obscure piece of vocabulary, he's the one I want to tell.

Tonight I got a Chinese takeaway. Dad was a great cook, and when cooking foreign food he always strove for authenticity. He wanted to make Indian food like people in India make it, make Thai food like people in Thailand make it. Similarly when he was eating out, he wanted to go to the curry houses that the local Asian population ate at. When he did some work in Lahore in Pakistan, he avoided the tourist food places and instead found where the locals ate out.

So whenever I go in the takeaway I went to tonight, I think of him because it is very popular with Chinese students. This suggests authenticity. And they have a menu in mandarin on the wall, which is clearly different from the English language menu because of the number of items, and the prices. Whenever I'm in there I imagine my Dad asking the guy who runs it what's different about the Chinese-language menu, what makes those items more popular with the students and others from China, which item was most popular with the Chinese guests, and could he please have that. I smiled as I imagined being faintly embarrassed by all of this, too.

As it was, my takeaway tonight was as inauthentic as it gets - chop suey and chips, both as rooted in the West as is possible. And tasty it was, too.

I miss him. Painfully, frequently and deeply.


NaBloPoMo