A selection from the deadad inflations

Of pretending he was a saint

Surrey Docks, Bermondsey and a hidden view over London, like the violence that he might meet out.

Of life is life

Eden’s song, her summer 2003 song, sung after lunch to the deadad who was about to become the Bigman.

Of the car that took us to the Faroes

The Volvo that drove us across Europe to The Faroe Islands. A country Papa continued to love long after he left, acting as Chairman for the Faroe Islands Forces OCA and organising fund raising for the community and indirectly his illegitimate son?

Of touching his deadad for the very first time

The Deadad’s Deadads’ son, born 18th January, 1946, known by me but never met by them? Touching his deadad for the first time in an attempt to assist me with his own ‘inflation’.

Of an ode to a deadad

We stayed on and I wrote an ode whilst looking down onto the village of Tjørnuvik

Of making our way across Mexico for the

day of the dead
On the road from Mexico City to Patzcuaro where we were hoping to spend the night of the day of the dead.

Of the hotel in which he stayed for the days of the dead

Patzcuaro, Mexico and the hotel in which we stayed for the Days of the Dead. The owner was compelled to dress up and come join us in the happening. Apparently the garb is not an antedote to things white supremacist but some ‘other’ religious sect.

Of bearing witness to his oldest son’s birthday

Venice, California. November 5th 2005, five years after the deadad’s death and we are all back together.

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