I miss you.

I miss the way you smell, the way you�ve always smelt since the very first day I can remember.

I miss the way you thought everything was solvable and fixable no matter what the problem. Rational. Sensible. So different from me. I was not my Father�s daughter. And yet...

I miss your random, rubbish email jokes and your bad, bad text messages with their total lack of punctuation and capitalization; you, you with your grammar and your spelling obsessions, so knowledgeable about technology yet so appalling at texting.

I miss the way you rang me just to tell me there was a rainbow, or a robin in your garden, or a spider in your window or a joke that made you laugh.

I miss your laugh.

I miss the way you could do anything you chose to. I was so proud of you, I am proud of you still. And I miss you being proud of me.

I miss you calling Harry a prune and I miss you telling us we�d got fatter, (although I never thought I�d say that) and I miss your always, always having to be right, even when you were really, really wrong.

I miss your delight in a brand new full bottle of Prosseco, generously monitoring everyone�s glass to make sure it was full but always making sure yours was the fullest, and I miss you being excited about yoghurt, and ice-cream and raspberries, and Dad�s Beef Stew because even though I�ve got the recipe it won�t be the same as you making it.

I miss the way you stroked my hair and cuddled me when I was sad and frightened. I miss having someone stronger, older, wiser, someone who loved me so much they would always, always look after me no matter what I did or said or asked for or shouted about.

Who will look after me now?

And how can I change the file name of the picture of you from me.jpg? You called it that, and now you are not here to call pictures of you me.

And how can I delete you from my phone? From my email? How can I press Yes when my computer asks me Delete: Daddy?

My Dad.

How I miss you.

And nothing I write can do you justice because you were such a physical, visual person. How can I represent you in words when you were colours and sounds and smells and ideas and suggestions and emotions? And so very much more besides.

All I can do is write this for you, about you. An online note which explains to no-one how I really feel, or what you actually meant to me, and which does not do you justice.

And all I can think is that I want you to be back. Even though you were so sick, and so sad, and so tired and so very, very fed up I want you back. Just for a bit more. Just for one more cuddle, one more witty comment, one more clink of a glass, one more wink, one more smile, one more, one more, one more...

...Just one more.

And how selfish is that?

Oh, and how selfish is that.

I love airports.

I love the security, I love the huge lifts, big enough so several tens of people and their life's possessions can all cram in, and I love the dreadful coffee and the pointlessness of the huge new hardback novels that you haven�t read in WH Smith, because who the hell is going to buy a book that weighs so much when they�re travelling, and I love the lady who announces things in 18 different languages, especially when she�s asking for someone by name because they�re just about to miss their flight, and I love the passionate, tear-filled goodbyes between new lovers at the Departures gate, and the posh shops with their irrelevant, inappropriate discounts and the people who buy armful�s of cigarettes in Duty Free because they�re �2 cheaper even though they know they can get then for �10 cheaper when they get to their destination, and the Boots shops full of travel adaptors for every country in the world, and the smoking rooms so full of smoke that when you open the door you think you should call the Fire Brigade, and the Stewardesses who stride purposefully through the concourse with their smart suits and neck-scarves and pull-along trolleys, and the hundreds upon hundreds of people who are biting their fingernails in tense, expectant excitement because there about to embark on something new, something they haven�t experienced before, a new country, new people, new cultures...

I love it.

But most of all I love to fly.

I love taxiing with your belt buckled tight, and the shriek of the engines as you start to hurtle down the runway, and the lift in your stomach as the plane takes off, and the houses with swimming pools that you can always see below you, and the rubbish, rubbish food in its little organised containers, and the bad film sound through the headphones, and the �Where We Are Now� map which shows you a little icon of a plane and a red dotted arc depicting where you are and where you�re going, and the tiny, tiny toilets with the weird vacuum flush which makes you think the plane is going to invert itself so the inside becomes the out, and the full make-up of the Stewardesses and the way they say �Tea? Or Coffee? like they really care, every single time, and the �What To Do In An Emergency� card, with its picture of people without their shoes gaily sliding down a big yellow inflatable slide, right into the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.

Oh.

I love it.

But most of all I love to land, when the wheels come down and you have to put your belt back on and put your book away, and you know in 10 minutes, 2 minutes, 1 minute, 30 seconds, 20 seconds, 10 seconds, 3 seconds, any minute now as the plane brakes and brakes and brakes and you think it won�t stop this time, any minute now you�ll be standing on soil you�ve never stood on, being interrogated about your visit by sullen immigration officers, following signs in a language you don�t understand and being accosted by dodgy mini-cab drivers who think they know where you�re going, and paying for things with multi-coloured toy money, and meeting people you never imagined existed, and seeing things you couldn�t dream of, and smelling smells so alien to you that you can�t place them...

And I love, love, love it, love it best when the Captain says:

"Ladies and Gentlemen,

welcome to .....

The time in ..... is .....

And we hope you have a wonderful stay.

We really do hope you have a wonderful stay."

Spiteful, hateful, text messages?
That�s not love.

Sending them over and over, because I ignore them?
That�s not love.

Winding me up and up and up until I call in frustrated rage?
That�s not love.

When I call and you hold the phone to the speakers in order to ignore me?
That�s not love.

Accusing me of lying, all the time?
That�s not love.

Wanting something back, just because you�re pride is hurt?
That�s not love.

Attacking the person you say you love?
That�s not love.

I see it never was.

That was control. Not love.

And now it never will be.

Illness insists that I remain resting on the sofa, so apart from these brief sojourns to my computer when utter TV hell boredom sets in, that is mainly what I�ve been doing.

Lying, wrapped in my duvet with a leopard skin print hot water bottle on my tummy I have watched crap TV show after crap TV show, contemplated the state of British TV today, wondered at what on earth induced the BBC to employ Dom Joly in his own chat show, and have generally become convinced that telly isn�t like it used to be.

Apart from the delivery of the aforementioned hot water bottle by someone very kind, I�ve been on my own all day, which is an unusual state of affairs; I don�t think I�ve been ill on my own for a very, very long time. But I found it strangely liberating in a lonely sort of way, after all, if I can be ill on my own, I can manage anything without the help of anyone.

Can�t I?

You know those days when you just think, 'Oh how much easier it would be to keep going straight on when the road bends round'?

But that's not an option. Not really. Now, if it were able to kill off my emotional self, whilst leaving the physical one perfectly in tact, that would be an option. And how lovely. To do away with all the pain and the constant dull, nagging, aching awareness of the devastation literally just around the corner. To make all that go, and be left with a brand new, clear headed, uncaring, unemotional me.

But instead I drive down dark motorways, my eyes full of tears that make the world seem out of focus and the lights streaky, and instead of gathering myself together, doing a bit of breathing or whatever, I decide the correct course of action is to put the song which is playing on my CD and which is partly responsible for this feeling onto repeat, and turn the sound up, and put my foot down, and really wallow in it.

Bleh.

The worst week (and one day) in the whole worst world ever?

Thursday: Like a mad person I leave home with just one car load of stuff and transport myself instantly into the land of singleness, skintness, loneliness, and nothing to do on a saturday night-ness.

Monday: A mad person crashes into my car, in the *fast* lane of the M4, and stoves the side in so much that you can't get in the passenger door.

Tuesday: A mad person driving the other way to me runs over a dog, I get out of my car, scream 'Get the fuck off his fucking paw, fucker,' pick up the dog, and take the dog and it's freaked owner to the vet. Then I come home and wash the dog blood off my back seat, throw my shoes/clothes away due to blood everywhere, and all my neighbours peer out of their windows going, 'See her next door, she's an axe murderer.'

Friday: I go to get in my car only to find a mad person (is this the same mad person that I am, and that clearly has it in for me?) has gouged big holes all around the lock and broken the door handle in a bid to break in. So currently, the only way to get in the sodding car is to get in the back and climb through to the front, which, frankly, makes me look like a bit of a dick.

Bad, huh?

Bloody mad people.