Tag: Dad

To My Dad On Father’s Day

Dear Dad,

Thank you for being so unashamedly you. Thank you for passing me the bricks to build myself back up when I’m down. Thank you for holding my hand, lying beside me and wiping my tears. Thank you for the arguments that end in laughs and the postman pat parodies. Thank you for waiting outside many a course, party and event. Thank you for the acceptance, the acknowledgement and the encouragement. Thank you for admitting when you have been wrong and for treating me like an adult. Thank you for your Dad worries, though I would rather you didn’t have them. Thank you for guiding me, for fighting for me and being there through thick and thin. Thank you for being my warrior, although sometimes we acknowledge you didn’t make the best move. Thank you for the hugs, for the advice and for the unmistakable love between us. Thank you for hiding pictures of saints under my bed and praying I get better, I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Thank you for my first pair of heels, my first bike and my first prom dress. Thank you for teaching me the power of the written word and how to respect it.

But most of all thank you for being my flying instructor, and for helping me to spread my wings.

Love,

Littlest Daughter

my Dad and three year old I drinking out of the same glass with two straws. Dad is a grey haired man with glasses who is smilingly comically

Music: Paul Simon Father and Daughter 

Off His Trolley?

Some of you reading this will know that I set off to a residential college on friday. From friday onwards I will be living at college during term time. It is all very exciting, and there is a room downstairs currently dedicated to the boxes, bags and cases that will be used for the big move. My family is just as excited as I am but my Dad, being a chronic worrier, tends to go overkill at times like this. My packing currently consists of three (fairly light) plastic boxes, one large case with wheels and a few assorted bits and bobs. This is why I feel that what happened next was a little over the top.

Dad ordered a large industrial haulage trolley from the internet a few days ago because it will ‘help with carrying things’. Like any teenager I began to squirm. I don’t mind being different however being the girl with the father ferrying things around in a steel trolley worthy of british rail, wasn’t in the least bit desirable.

Yesterday was the due date for the trolley’s arrival. We waited in and surprisingly promptly there was a knock on the door and a large parcel.  The first saga to unfold (or not) was the box. It was a strange triangular shape and appeared to be welded to whatever was inside. Dad -in his enthusiastic state- then had to resort to tearing the box apart to reveal a large amount of shiny metal. The trolley was a large platform with a foldable handle- and I hated it already.

“How will you get it up the stairs?” I protested.
“There’s a lift.” Said Dad, not looking up from his new toy.
“What if someone using a wheelchair is moving in and needs to use the lift?” I retried. I got no response for this pretty weak argument.
“Can’t we just carry my stuff like the other families will be carrying theres?” I sighed. I really don’t want to stick out as odd the second I arrive at college.
“All the other parents will want one! They will be like: ‘Hey, who’s that guy with the trolley, we should get one like that.'” He responded- slipping into the half fantasy world where things like this are cool. I could tell that this would probably escalate quite quickly if I kept arguing. Looking at it despairingly once more I asked- “But where are the wheels?”

This was a good point. The bottom of the trolley seemed to be just smooth metal, with no sign of wheels what-so-ever. It looked as if it had been made as a solution for removal men in Greenland as a half sledge- half trolley. After some more rummaging we found the wheels hidden in the box. They had no instructions enclosed and as far as wheels went; these looked like they were made for the tricycles of the trolley world- rather than this huge delivery lorry.

With disappointed mutters he turned the trolley back to being the right way up. That’s when he noticed the tear. At the platform part of the trolley -where my relatively light bags would sit- there was a large gash through the middle. It looked as if it wouldn’t be able to carry my teacup, let alone a case. Sadly he packed it back into the torn box (with great difficulty) and organised for it to be sent back as faulty.

I can’t say I am sad at this loss and I am more inclined to dance with joy over the fortunate death of the trolley. As Dad doesn’t work as a porter, or a delivery man, I make the assumption that the trolley was unnecessary: though he argues it just isn’t as clear cut as that. I suppose we will only know who was right on friday…!

A humongous orange case carried by two struggling men