Never stop

My dad was only three years older than I am now when he retired. Although he came from a very poor background, he was fortunate enough to work for an international bank, get into IT just as it became commercially important and also retire with one of those pensions that, once upon a time, seem to have been handed out with no thought for the long term consequence on the provider. (Pensions appear to have been a Ponzi scheme back then, which were paying the price of now.)

I've often wondered how I'd cope with being retired: would I write that book, learn to play the guitar, or record my own interpretation of 'The Sinking of the Titanic'? I'm not sure. But over the last twenty-five years my dad has done all sorts of things: taken unlikely jobs; started ten pin bowling; done the books for the local Labour party (I think); and, a couple of years ago, he took up water colour painting.

I think I gave up on art when I was 11. After a childhood spent enthusiastically creating my own comics, all based on Marvel characters, one damning comment by an art teacher in my first year at secondary school put an end to my adventures with pen and paper. And since then, I've seen it as a missed opportunity, something that I might have become good at but now it's too late.

This (uncharacteristic) defeatism was thrown back in my face by my dad's rapid successes with painting, something he'd never done (as far as I know) up until he joined this course. This is a photo of one of his paintings which he did after only a few months. Which means I'm not off the hook: maybe I should try drawing again.