Embarrassing Truths

This isn't easy. When I first found out that writing a blog was a good thing, to be lauded not derided, I'll admit I was shocked. Surviving the initial threat to my health, I wrote some interminable dross, lots of it, in fact, which I'm sure you'll find if you look hard enough.

But the gift of hindsight allowed me to realise that it was, in fact, total bollocks. So I've had a re-think.

And (yes I started a sentence like that) here I am, following the oldest rule of writing, but one that I hope serves me well.

Write what you know. And I don't know much, especially not much that is worthy of public consumption, but awhile back I something did happen to me that I reckon is more relevant to most than the mundane banality the floats around on this internet thing.

Simply put. My Father died. I was 15, nearly sixteen, and it was completely unexpected.

I've never been a fan of talking about it, and I'd probably die of embarrassment if it, or this, came up in conversation, but I figure it can be no bad thing for me to write about it, or even for others to read about it. Who knows, I've been wrong before.

So here it is, with no word of a lie, the recounted story of maybe the most ordinary experience ever (I reckon more people have been through this than any other event)

The death of a parent.
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