mostly david ephgrave

Yesterday, I used the example of Star Trek's "redshirts" trope in my therapy appointment after my therapist suggested I'm too intent on trying to solve my current problems myself, instead of handing them to someone more qualified to deal with them (in this case, the solicitor I've taken on to negotiate issues relating to my dad's estate). If you're not familiar with the principle, it's simple: whenever the crew land on a mysterious alien planet, it's always the cast-members dressed in red and not blue - the actors with a handful of IMDB credits as opposed to Shatner, Nimoy or Kelly - who walk headfirst into danger to meet a sticky end. This happens often enough not to be a primary-coloured coincidence and is so common a plot-point to have inspired a comic novel of the same name.  While I'd usually agree with this summation, I know it doesn't apply in this instance, as things have been so terrible since my dad's death, I crave d...

Today we buried my dad's ashes at the church in Woolmer Green where we had his funeral, opposite his old school and the pub he drank in regularly, in the same grave as his parents. The service was brief but pleasant, in the presence of his close family, and I had the responsibility of lowering the casket at the opportune moment. Doing this was hard, inevitably, but it also meant a lot to be the one to do it, and I hope it would give me dad comfort to know the task went to me; I love and miss him unceasingly and he's always on my mind (look out, Willie Nelson), and he told me not long before he died that I made him less afraid, so I hope I helped. There's one conversation we had in his last few weeks that was pertinent. Like many men, we didn't express the depth of our feelings until the last moment, but they could still be summed up in a few words. At the time, my heart ached as we navigated difficult topics knowing there wouldn't be a second chance. But I ...