30 years ago today my Dad died. It has been a weird kind of a day.

To be honest there were no massive feelings of sadness in my head. It was a normal working day, and I was too busy to indulge in gazing soulfully out of the window with a sad expression on my face. Earlier this month the family had discussed going out for a meal, or maybe doing something else to mark the day, but in the end my Mom decided that she didn't want to do anything at all, so the idea was dropped. We did have had a memoriam put into the Evening Mail newspaper, under the name he was known by at work, which was not his real name. I strongly objected to that. His real name should have been on his memoriam. It was the name that we knew him by. Fuck everybody else.

Doesn't matter.

I think about my Dad, sometimes. I dream about him in times of trouble. My Dad would have been 73 this year. When my Dad appears in my dreams, he is always the age he would have been if he had lived. In my dreams we are always outside, on a bright and sunny day. He is always wearing his suit. (He was of the generation that dressed down for work and dressed up to go out and drink.) He is smoking a cigar and has a pint in his hand. He always asks me, "What's going on, Son?" and I tell him. Then he always says, "Ah, things'll be fine. Don't you worry." Always the same. I wonder if he will continue to age as I get older.

My Dad never saw his children grow up and he never saw his grandchildren. My Dad was the biggest Clint Eastwood fan in the world, from "Rawhide" onwards. My Dad would have had a drink to celebrate Clint finally getting an Oscar.

I miss my Dad.