Updated: Aug 2, 2020
I can almost hear my mothers voice. She's trying to persuade my da to paint the house the same dreary grey one of the neighbours had chosen, and two out of the three others had used - a lighter shade of grey, perhaps, but grey and therefore dreary, nonetheless.
My da stood his ground. That's the way my da rolled. I would never use the word 'leader' to describe him. He was too content and aware of his sense of self to bother being a leader. Neither would I - or anyone who knew him - use the word 'sheep.'
I had reason to stroll through the old estate the other day. I walked across the green our house faced onto - a green I hated as a boy, and despise as a 56-year-old man - but I smiled as I observed what I considered a sheepish image.
There are two worlds. One in which my da lived. Another, in which he lives in peoples' hearts, minds, memories.
There are two photos in this article - so far - and I know which one I prefer.
And then there's this one: