My Dad died last year. Nothing odd about that; when you get to a certain age it’s likely your parents will expire. If you live a little longer than the average person did in the Nineteenth Century, or during most of the Twentieth – you will end up an orphan . It’s a certainly, like rain on holiday weekends in England.
Dad was never Daddy, he was simply Dad. He lived approximately twenty three years longer than he should; thanks to modern medicine. And if it hadn’t been for modern medicine, I would have been dead at 17.
So nothing that happened to me subsequently would have happened.
All the bad stuff would have happened to some other unfortunate, and the good things..they would hopefully be evenly distributed about the place (hopefully).
Without those good things, life would be an unrelenting misery. Think of those two girls, awaiting trial and imprisonment in Peru (for drug smuggling) – what do they have to look forward to. Freedom I hear you say – yes they will be free one day, but, and it’s a pretty huge but: they are 20 years of age, 5 hours is a lifetime when you’re that age. So fifteen to twenty years or more in jail, is an eternity.
The good stuff is a tangible commodity. Apart from Freedom, those two girls also want the comforts of home. One asked for hair removal cream, the other Oreo Cookies. Reading this in the press just made me incredibly sad, not because they could have chosen more useful things, what would you choose if you were incarcerated in a South American Jail? No I was sad because these things are so ordinary.
Forget the big holidays and fantasy mansions; the high performance cars and designer clothes. It’s the ordinary things that make us happy. I know it’s bordering on the folksy, but it’s true – as true as this god awful weather we are having this August bank Holiday in England.
Now in the hot smouldering heat of that Peruvian Jail, I expect those two girls; one is Irish, the other Scots, will be wishing they were back home – where showers are forecast and heat is something that comes from a radiator.
My Dad, during his last days, imagined he’d written a book about the Incas. It was the Morphine talking, but he did have a big interest in Ancient Civilizations; particularly South American. He took me as a child to see the film Royal Hunt of The Sun which concerned the Spanish conquest of the Inca Empire.
Nobody in the press has made the connection between the two girls, who few from Spain to Peru, and the Conquistadors; but I suppose it’s pretty irrelevant: a currency my Dad particularly favoured – the irrelevant fact.
The sun is now poking through my blinds, so the weather is on the turn. Somewhere in hell or heaven, my Dad has situated himself with the Inca people of the Sixteenth Century. And somewhere in a Peruvian Jail, sits an Irish girl, eating an Oreo Cookie. She collects the crumbs as they fall, and scoops them into her mouth. She’s experiencing the good stuff, the bit sandwiched between life’s unrelenting horrors.