I remember on Sundays

On Sundays, I remember.

It was one of the few days he could have had to himself.

But without fail we’d drive to Rowland’s Castle, for surely just another pulled muscle or skewed finish.

Be it the bitter cold, or an utter downpours, I’d arrive with the discipline of polished boots,

and leave with them caked in mud, clapping them together sending echoes through the car park before climbing into his Beemer, roaring home through country lanes, Guns N’ Roses blaring,

and upon arriving home, I'd clean my boots again to the ker-ching of a 'Radio 5 Live' gameshow as he spent the next few hours preparing a feast,

then we’d sit at the table (Elbows off. Backs straight.) and I’d ding my knife on the roast potatoes to test the integrity of their crispiness, refueling my body with as much sausage stuffing as I were permitted.

I understand better now that these weren’t sacrifices (the many things he did for us),

they were the things that made him happy.

Updated on March 6, 2026 for Dad’s funeral