Pretty Woman
I've just spent a sentimental hour and a half watching Pretty Woman, accompanied by my boyfriend and two glassess of appropriately chilled Rosé.
It was my dad's favourite film and he's been dead four years today. Dad wasn't shallow, but I don't think it's shallow movie, despite it's eighties-tasticness. I think dad appreciated the occasional beauty of things going right. I'm not saying that things didn't ever go right for him, but that doesn't mean a bit of fairytale joy would have gone amiss.
I remember happy times with my dad, and I know he had others, which I just didn't witness at the time. I also remember that nothing seemed to be able to make him happy any more. He could appear happy in company, and maybe he was, but right now, I wonder whether this was not mostly about playing a part he knew well, that of the charming gentleman. He was popular with everybody in the village, bought chocolates for the salesladies at his favourite shops, greeted everybody and be greeted in turn. He regularly attended a spinning class in his gym, and they all got together with us there and we had fizz and chocolates to pay our respects.
He -was- like that.
He was a great reciter of things, and could tell a tale from his life exceedingly well when somebody other than his family were there to appreciate it. There is still a lot I don't know about his life. I know his mom left him with a series of distant relatives until he was old enough for boarding school. I know that, as a young man, he was a prisoner of war with the Americans in World War 2. I know he got his first steady, permanent job when my sister turned out to be on the way. I know he was a great lover of books and had one to look up anything I happened to be interested in. I know he liked to bait mum and she reliably rose to the slightest provocation. I know we shared a similar sense of humour and I've inherited his build - muscular, but tending to softening somewhat around the middle.
I think he knew he'd got old, that there were many things he'd done for the last time. I think he was tired. I think he no longer cared very much, but he once told me that as long as a man could still appreciate good wine, good music and beautiful women, he had something left to live for. I think he died suddenly, still appreciating these things. I continue to love him very much and I miss him, but remembering him in this way has been great fun, too.
Here's a picture of him with the youngest new member of our family, now nearly 11.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/semioticghosts/234248127/in/set-72157594269012645
It was my dad's favourite film and he's been dead four years today. Dad wasn't shallow, but I don't think it's shallow movie, despite it's eighties-tasticness. I think dad appreciated the occasional beauty of things going right. I'm not saying that things didn't ever go right for him, but that doesn't mean a bit of fairytale joy would have gone amiss.
I remember happy times with my dad, and I know he had others, which I just didn't witness at the time. I also remember that nothing seemed to be able to make him happy any more. He could appear happy in company, and maybe he was, but right now, I wonder whether this was not mostly about playing a part he knew well, that of the charming gentleman. He was popular with everybody in the village, bought chocolates for the salesladies at his favourite shops, greeted everybody and be greeted in turn. He regularly attended a spinning class in his gym, and they all got together with us there and we had fizz and chocolates to pay our respects.
He -was- like that.
He was a great reciter of things, and could tell a tale from his life exceedingly well when somebody other than his family were there to appreciate it. There is still a lot I don't know about his life. I know his mom left him with a series of distant relatives until he was old enough for boarding school. I know that, as a young man, he was a prisoner of war with the Americans in World War 2. I know he got his first steady, permanent job when my sister turned out to be on the way. I know he was a great lover of books and had one to look up anything I happened to be interested in. I know he liked to bait mum and she reliably rose to the slightest provocation. I know we shared a similar sense of humour and I've inherited his build - muscular, but tending to softening somewhat around the middle.
I think he knew he'd got old, that there were many things he'd done for the last time. I think he was tired. I think he no longer cared very much, but he once told me that as long as a man could still appreciate good wine, good music and beautiful women, he had something left to live for. I think he died suddenly, still appreciating these things. I continue to love him very much and I miss him, but remembering him in this way has been great fun, too.
Here's a picture of him with the youngest new member of our family, now nearly 11.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/semioticghosts/234248127/in/set-72157594269012645