Charles James Pickersgill

There’s something strange about dads. Maybe not all of them. Probably most. Certainly mine. Possibly me. Too often we don’t get to really know them until it’s too late to matter any more. Sometimes we learn that the person we think we know is not the person we thought we knew. I think I got to know mine in the last couple of decades of his life. He was living in Stratford and looking after my mother as she struggled against the irreversible fog of dementia. She could remember every grievance she suffered as a child but not how to do the laundry. My dadRead More →