George

My dad, looking like his cap has been nailed to the side of his head. It was only when I read Arachne's entry about St Patrick's Day that I remembered that today is the anniversary of my dad's death 35 years ago and thought what the hell, let's give the guy an outing.

He taught me to read at a very early age using the sports pages of his newspaper, particularly the racing pages and was so proud of me as I learned really quickly. I remember the teacher being really cross when she discovered I could read fluently when I arrived at school.

He tried to do a similar thing for me with arithmetic, using betting odds and cricket scores but it never really clicked.

When I got older he took me to watch cricket at Headingley and was really pissed off when I fell asleep.

He was a quiet sort of bloke, one of four brothers and worked all his life in one of the textile mills in Bradford. He was an overlooker in the weaving bit of the mill where my mum also worked.

Because he had seen a bit of the world (India, I think) when he was in the army he actively encouraged me to go where I wanted, see what I wanted so long as I didn't expect him and my mum to pay for any of my gallivanting and so long as I didn't come back pregnant.

The only time I remember him raising his voice to my mother was when she had been rummaging through my bag and found what she thought were drugs. I came home to hear him shouting: 'I have never heard of any drugs that come in packets of 28 with the days of the week written on them. And what are you doing going through her bag?'

When we arrived at the chapel of rest for his funeral, which was opposite the mill, there were literally dozens and dozens of people outside. The mill had stopped work for an hour as a mark of respect.