Dad

Dad

The phrase “inquisitive mind” has (or will) be used several times throughout what’s being said today. I’m not sure I even like the phrase, but it’s stuck with me — and the more I think about it, the more it seems to describe my dad perfectly.

When I think about my dad, my memories fall into two categories — those of our shared experiences, and those of simply observing who he was as a person. There are the moments we spent together: him introducing me to golf, and us spending hours hitting buckets of balls. Or introducing me to fishing — and doing that side by side. I still stumble across new memories, or find artifacts in the attic from things we did together.

And then there’s the other kind — the kind that show who he was. Like filming our school plays. He’d turned up with his oversized camera (yes, one actually designed for a film production), microphones, mixers, recorders — the lot. Cables would be trailing all over the school hall. And then, he’d edit the whole thing and manually copy stacks of DVDs for other parents. It was entirely him — over-prepared, over-engineered, and totally committed.

That tendency to go all-in — to be precise, methodical, maybe even a little obsessive — was a big part of who he was. This really came through in his computer backup routine. He seemed to spend more time backing up, restoring, and troubleshooting his system than actually using it. And now I’ve discovered he had twelve hard drives dedicated to the process, all with slightly different versions of backup software. I’m sure it made perfect sense to him.

Even something as simple as making a coffee followed a carefully constructed ritual. He’d grab a mug and fill the kettle with a generous amount of water. Once it boiled, he’d pour it into the mug. Then he’d fill a milk dispenser and attach it to the coffee machine. The machine would start up, self-clean (dumping water cupfulls of water into the tray). He’d throw away the hot water from the mug and finally set the machine going. Then he’d finish it off with what felt like a kilo of sugar. And this wasn’t just once a day — it was about eight times. I once suggested he try coffee syrup. He gave it a go, but immediately said it was too sweet.

These kinds of memories — weird and wonderful — stick with me. And I’ve come to appreciate them far more as time goes on. I remember he was often found in his studio, surrounded by gizmos and brilliant equipment, tweaking the routing of audio and video through a maze of hardware. It was like a full broadcast studio. I assumed it was for demos for clients — but the demos were rare and I eventually realised it was almost entirely just for him. It was his fascination. And looking back, I can see how much that rubbed off on me. Not by accident — he truly encouraged me to explore. To run wildly inefficient servers under my bed, running day and night — a fire hazard, I’m sure, to learn from and experiment with, without limits.

That same dedication showed up in so many places — like the hours he’d spend hand-wrapping fishing flies to be just right. How he could take nylon and fluff and make it look irresistible to a fish, I’ll never understand.

My dad was a complex person. He had a great attitude and outlook on life and, while I didn’t always agree with it growing up, I’m starting to understand more and more as I get older — either because I’ve inherited some of those traits, or because I’ve come to appreciate them for what they were.

Even more recently, going to the pub with him was lovely, able to have endless conversations and recalling stories

Dad, thank you for everything - I owe an incredible amount of who I am to you — my personality, my career, my hobbies, my passions. I love you more than I can ever say and I’ll carry you with me in everything I do.