Do feel free to break into a rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody if it looks like I need it .

I’ve been thinking a great deal over the last several weeks about how Dad’s legacy lives on in me and I settled on three areas.
A speech about Dad wouldn’t be a speech about Dad without starting with sport.

Never say never, but I think it unlikely that I will be troubling Emma Radacanu or Mary Earps anytime soon – so our bond was always going to be more as spectators. The thrill of Formula One fitted the bill nicely and, through childhood, I cheered whoever Dad was cheering.

That was until 1991 when Michael Schumacher burst onto the scene and suddenly I found myself supporting the enemy as far as Dad was concerned – battling as he was against Damon Hill. Fast forward to 1994 and just 1 point separated the two heading into the final race of the season. Let’s just say – there was a ‘racing incident’ taking out both drivers and leaving Schumacher the World Champion.
Dad and I simultaneously leapt from our seats shouting at the screen– me with delight and partisan defence of my hero, Dad with outrage – but the smiles between us were huge and I could see Dad was chuffed to bits that I had found my sport and delighted in hearing of my adventures following it around the world in subsequent years.

Next, of course is our shared love of animals; with a particular speciality in the waif and stray market. Our house was always filled with pets who were adored – but there was also a steady stream of more temporary visitors. Baby rabbits brought in by the cat nursed back to health and all of whom developed amazing Houdini like skills in escaping the cage after a few weeks of nursing. Of course – Dad was waiting until after I’d gone to bed to release them back to the wild and save my heart.

Then there was Coalie the crow  - found by Dad having fallen from it’s nest and brought back to the fold. Coalie befriended Titch the cat and Tilly the dog  and stayed with us until he was strong enough to fly confidently as an adolescent. Last summer, Dad and I sat in my garden and contentedly whiled away the hours talking about the cats in the garden, the horses and foxes in the field, the red kites in the sky whilst the sun shone and we sipped Prosecco. We were happy.

Finally – I share my Dad’s love of language, his penchant for prose, his admiration of an adjective, his wonderment for words. Every note from him was always well crafted and effusive in it’s descriptiveness. Perhaps mine is more defined by a predisposition to whitter.
So I’ve used 500 words where perhaps five would have done …..

Dad, I love you – always