bad signal
WARREN 

I just found out, through a letter
from my half-sister, that my
stepfather died a couple of weeks
ago.  Never got on with the bastard
particularly well; one of those people
where it was hard to tell if he was
massively bipolar or just an arsehole.
He got run over some years ago,
to the laughter of many, and had
a morphine pump installed in the
leg that got wrecked.  It seems that
mistakes were made during a 
recent surgical overhaul of the pump,
and he died at home of deep vein
thrombosis a week later.  Evidently
my brother found him.  He'd been
dead a few days, I gather.

Hadn't spoken to him since my mum's
funeral.  His funeral's today, and,
as I say, I just found out.  The date
stamp on the envelope suggest our
local postal service has worked its
usual magic, and smoke signals would
have been a better option.  So, no,
I'm not there, though it might have
been worth popping along just to
make sure he's dead.

Still, I learned a lot from the man,
stupid evil old shitbag that he was.
Including, I think, looking at his
behavior over the years and deciding
that that's not what a man is.  That
said, he gave me the first job I
ever had --  a Saturday milkman
at age 16, one of the worst jobs
you can conceive of, and hugely
instructive.

We came to an understanding, over
the years, and I know he had a
certain respect for me, for doing
things my own way.  And, he once
told me, for moving out at 18,
which he said he couldn't have done.
Of course, at the time he told me
that, I didn't know he'd destroyed in
a fit of anger a box of books I'd left
at the house.

Still and all...not going to be a very
productive day, I think.  That's no
way to go.

Goodbye, you spiteful old bastard.
Sleep well.

-- W

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