David Medlycott

Another 'Terrible Twins' story.

Traveling the dark passages of the mind.

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But, three's even better when you're six!

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THEY NEVER STOP BEING CHILDREN.

Our ‘Little Boy’ called by the other night on his way to a meeting in Leeds. I call him the ‘ little Boy’ because that is what he always is to his mother. 'He' is Andrew; six feet four inches plus tall; sixteen stone; thirty five years old; ex-competitive swimmer; married; living in Scotland. Helen reckons that she will always worry about him, she wouldn’t be a good mother if she didn’t. Fine. Why was it me, then, who was awake from the early hours making sure that his alarm went off at six and he left on time?

THOUGHTS IN THE GYM’

When your mp3 player battery dies and you manage to exclude the drum and bass background music, where does your mind go during all that repetition?

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IT’S AN AGE THING!

Funerals. We’ve just been to the third Humanist funeral in six months. Sadly, my uncle Ron (Ronald Walter, I’ve just discovered his second name) died at the end of last month. He was ninety two, and I’ll avoid the clichés here. But, it was interesting to see yet another Humanist ceremony. I quite like it, not being a religious person myself I think it is much better to listen to an account of someone’s life and to celebrate it. I always feel that most of the people attending church funerals are like me, but just hedging their bets. We had a touch of brightness, too, at Ron’s funeral, he was a lifelong Arsenal supporter, so the family asked us all to wear something red and white.
The other aspect of funerals, and of weddings, come to that, is the family get together after; it’s merely the tone of the event that differs. I only met my uncle Ron for the first time a few years ago. My father was one of seven siblings, five boys, my father in the middle, and a pair of twin, younger sisters. Ron was the next youngest brother. We had been invited to my aunt’s Golden Wedding anniversary, only two or three years after my father had died, and walking into the room I was suddenly faced with my father, and it’s quite a jolt when that happens. There were differences of course, Ron was shorter and didn’t have my father’s military moustache, but those things don’t register immediately. Now there are only the twins left. Both are in their late eighties and were there.
It is an age thing; only when you lose, or are about to lose, something do you appreciate it’s true worth. The popularity of TV genealogy shows is something to do with this, I’m sure. As you pass a certain age your perspective on life changes; making you more aware of its transience. There is a need to rediscover those lost relations before it’s too late. Get those family photo’s out and write on them who’s who, because it’s quickly forgotten. Write down the family stories, because they will get corrupted with the French whispers of time. Even though the younger generation, hark at me!!, may not have too much apparent interest, that change of perspective will slowly creep up on them, too. That change of perspective hits you when you realise that you are now the older generation that has to be worried about by the younger.

LOSING A FRIEND

Oakey the Airedale with his best pal,
an Old English Hairless.
Sadly, our Oaky is no longer with us, he died last July after a good life of twelve years; his natural life expectancy. Only dog lovers out there will know and understand the freindship of a dog. He was our second Airedale, but Helen, my wife, is resisting getting another Airedale. She would like something a bit smaller and handleable, a Lakeland or Welsh Terrier possibly. But I will miss stroking that long back, an action that seemed so therapuetic to me, and that deep ‘manly’ woof. We still do the dogwalk in the morning, where we scattered his ashes, and meet his pals and their owners, everyone of whom asks where the new dog is, so we will have to get ourselves organised. The problem is that you do start to enjoy some of the things that dogs inhibit; long holidays, National Trust properties and actually being able to go into shops together. Though I cannot deny that I did bask in the reflected glory of the praise heaped on Oaky when we waited outside in the street. Until then I will continue using this photo as my business logo in memory of my best pal.
Oakey the Airedale, born a dog, died a gentleman.
(Adapted from an epitaph found on a dogs grave in Maryland