Tuesday, April 21, 2026
Some of my fondest childhood memories live on at the old house in Winston Hills—where time seemed to stretch just a little longer. There were endless packets of chippies, Joan’s famous fruit platters laid out like a feast, and long afternoons that melted into evenings spent playing backyard cricket. The bar fridge was always brimming with soft drink, and without fail, the same two VHS tapes would play on an endless loop, as if they too belonged to that place.
Pa was the warmest, gentlest soul—a man who carried a quiet kindness and a ready joke, always paired with that familiar chuckle. Whether he was showing me how to build a deck, playing a round of golf, or fixing a bike tyre, he had a way of turning the ordinary into something memorable, something worth holding onto.
I’m so grateful you were my Pa. And in more ways than I can put into words, you are the kind of Pa I hope to be one day. I know deep down you will take care of my beloved Theodore and show him your cheeky ways.
To Pa! Have a scotch or three old matey.