Tuesday 19th April 2016

Dad was born three months premature in the spring of 1939. He should not have survived, but he did. His Mother was already 39, so that she carried him that long, and he survived were double miracles. Dad was born very underweight, and all through life had a layer of skin too few. Apparently. But he did survive, their only child, and treasured. Survived the war, then made it through school, left handed and punished for that forced to write with his right, and profoundly dyslexic.

He first saw my Mum on the 3B bus, when she was barely 15 and he was nearly 20, and he was determined to marry her. Which he did three years later. Dad worked hard to provide for us, but it was hard. He went on strike, with the rest of the building industry in 1972 demanding a £20 week. He left in the end and went back to the shipyard, where he stayed until it went bust after being privatised in 1986, and so was back to square one.

Inbetween, he began to earn money, good money at times, and took us on a continental holiday in 1973, going to Paris, Amsterdam and Brussels. The years following were lean, and for two years we went to stay with friends in Essex, surviving on two quid a day. He hated it, that he had failed us.

But life improved, heck I even got a job, life became good for the family. But those days ran out when the shipyards were sold off, poorly run and he lost his job as being a union branch secretary. He found work, poor work, but made enough money to be comfortable, making doors in a factory. That is until that fateful day in April 1996, when his heart gave out.

I spoke to Mum on Sunday, but nothing was said by either of us, so, there were no arguments, no accusations, just the gentle passing of time before the 5 minutes were up and we ended the call. I worked in the garden, went hinting for orchids, and generally just got on with life. Which is what we do with the passing of time, move on but don’t really forget, just remember in different ways I suppose.

Monday

The alarm woke me up at quarter to five, with there being just a hint of light on the eastern horizon indicating where dawn would begin. I am packed, so just have to get ready and be out of the house before quarter to six, so we could get me to the station in Folkestone in time to catch the half six train to London.

I feed the cats, make coffee and breakfast, and so we are all set to go just two minutes behind schedule, but with the traffic so light, I am at the station at five past six and waiting on the platform by ten past, bathed in golden sunlight flooding the station from the east as the train pulled in quarter of an hour before departure, so I was able to claim a seat and check mails.

The train pulls out on time and calls in at the other Folkestone station and Ashford before speeding up and zooming up the high speed line to London. I make some calls and so feel in control of things, which is an odd feeling, bit is good, right?

There is chaos in London as one of the DLR lines is out, so people are making alternative travel plans, and our train is rammed. Through the old Olympic Park, and through all the places I know so well.

I am traveling on a different airline, so there is a different procedure, no choice of seats, and all much less panache.

Anyway, I drop my bag off, go through security and am the other side at eight, and hungry. So, I go for toast and coffee sat in a corner overlooking the flight line, almost like being in the RAF again, but with decent coffee and able to make choices!

In a change, another change, I have to go via Amsterdam, and have 90 minutes for the change, which is made difficult by being half an hour late leaving from London. And I have an aisle seat, so am unable to see out, and guess by what the plane and engines are doing as to where we were between London and Holland. I do have a seat in the 3rd row, which means I am one of the first off the plane, and I begin the ten mile hike to the centre of the terminal for the transfer to the other terminal, clear immigration. And then another ten mile walk. Or something like it.

I make it with ten minutes to spare, then watch the lemmings queue to board the plane to get their reserved seats; I am last on and slide into my window seat for the 40 minute hop to Billund.

We arrive at the same time as a flight from Portugal, so there is a mighty queue for the hire car, so I write more mails, make calls and so am in further control. I have a Toyota something hybrid crossover car thing. It is good, and an automatic, so I put my foot down and the car leaps away.

I am off to Ringkobing, I know the way but want to take the coast road, so I thought I set the sat nav right, but clearly it wanted to get me to the hotels quick, and we go the familiar way, but I only relaise before its too late to change. So I am at the hotel at four and presented with a voucher for a free beer if I order before 5. Which explains why I am sat at the bar sipping a cool beer and reading the information for Japan.

Manu arrives, we share more beers then arrange to meet for dinner at seven. Steak and fries and beer and cheese was the order of the day. But, I am shattered, as is Manu, so despite there being football on TV, I go to bed at half nine and try to get some decent sleep.