Love, DAD.

I’m on a plane to Athens.

A keynote on Friday on intelligence versus wisdom. A firestarter the day after. Then back, then the next thing, then the thing after that. The next eight weeks are stacked. I should be running through notes. Instead I keep wishing I could call my dad.

Every time I walk out onto a stage now, I find myself taking mental pictures so I can tell him all about it afterwards. He would have wanted to hear about Athens. He would have wanted to hear about all of it.

Today, I want to share his eulogy.

I process grief the way I process everything - by writing - but I chose to keep this one private at the time. Six months on, it feels like it needs to live somewhere other than my Google Drive. Because he deserves to exist on the internet as more than a name on the LinkedIn profile he set up in his eighties to follow my posts.

This is him.

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My dad was brilliant. Not in the way people casually throw that word around, but actually, measurably brilliant.

I’ve spent the last few days going through boxes of his paperwork and random old photos. School photos from when he was 11. Photos of him in white flared jumpsuits with huge thick blonde sideburns and tiny swimming trunks. And then I found all his school reports - every single one from age 7 through 18.

And reading through them, it’s all there: Number 1 in his class across every subject, year after year. English, Maths, Sciences - top marks, top of the class. All except Physical Education. “Not interested. Can’t be bothered. Erratic performance. Doesn’t take it seriously.” Dad always said that you’re born with a finite number of heartbeats, why waste them on exercise.

So he saved those heartbeats for the things that mattered. Adventures. Moments. Memories.

He’d tell us about Wroxton Abbey, where he lived in one of the rooms of this grand old manor house with his friends. One of the most haunted houses in England - complete with an eccentric aristocratic landlady who’d wander the halls at midnight in an ethereal nightdress, scaring the absolute shit out of them. They’d throw parties, and when they were drunk enough, they swore they could see the ghosts of monks rolling barrels between the buildings. Young, ridiculous, having the time of their lives.

Then there was the campervan trip across Europe. Think ‘Summer Holiday’ but with all of Cliff Richard’s entourage crammed into a single VW camper. He loved the adventure of it, but he also loved hot showers and proper beds and not having to use a ditch as a toilet. He said he’d never campervan again. And he didn’t.

He once stole the girlfriend of Big Daddy, the famous British wrestler. She became his second wife, Elaine. And somehow, all four of them - Dad, Elaine, Big Daddy and his new partner - would still go out to dinner together for years afterwards. That was Dad - someone who could navigate even the most complicated situations with enough warmth that everyone just... got over it.

That confidence and charm - it came from knowing exactly who he was and where he came from. He was so proud of Huddersfield and its heritage. On Sundays, we’d often have a family roast - and we’d settle in to watch Last of the Summer Wine. And I just always remember Dad pointing at the screen, delighted, saying “I know where that is!” Because he could recognise the streets and hills and buildings that shaped him. It feels trivial to mention, but that was him - finding joy in those small recognitions.

Though he didn’t venture back that often, his Yorkshire roots ran deep. Staunchly anti-Tory, a lover of liver and bacon, a true war baby. No nonsense, no pretense, just honest and human - it shaped him.

Material things never mattered to him - despite the mountains of toiletries, unopened socks, and what must have been a thousand toenail clippers he somehow accumulated over the years. What mattered were moments and memories and time with the people he loved. I remember childhood holidays - Spain, Greece, wherever we went - Mum and Ali would sometimes turn in early and Dad and I would go off and have our night adventures. And I just felt so lucky. First of all to be awake past my bedtime, but also because he’d take me out into the town and I’d see life I hadn’t really been exposed to before. People dancing, drinking in bars, the warm night air, the sound of laughter and music spilling out onto the streets. We’d get ice cream and wander, and I felt like we had our own little world after dark. Just us. And that time with him meant everything.

I remember one night - Sicily, maybe, or somewhere like it - there was a man playing guitar in the town square and Dad and I did this little dance together. Just swaying to the music, him grinning down at me. I loved that moment. I still do. Those small pockets of time when it was just us, that connection - that’s what I carry with me.

And the connection never wavered. As I grew up, it just changed form. When I was living overseas, travelling constantly for work, or just busy in my life as a twenty-something, emails were how he stayed close. They were his way of holding on. He wrote often, consistently, because he cared.

They were small pulses of presence. “How are you?” “What’s going on?” “I saw this and thought of you.” He became semi-famous in his own right - I’d often share his wonderful emails publicly, and people loved him. Like this one, pride and humour sandwiched between walls of exclamation marks: “PS. I see I am highlighted on your Twitter account today. No crowds outside yet though!!!!!!! Back to practicing. Love DAD.”

He’d send links to articles, share things he’d been reading, pass along recommendations he thought would help me professionally or personally. And it wasn’t just digital - he’d post me articles too, torn out of the paper with his post-it-note comments or sentences circled that he thought I’d like or be interested in. Actually going to the post office to send me these things. They were love notes, really. Being useful was his love language. He paid attention to my life incredibly closely - my career, my writing, my big decisions. The quiet pride was everywhere, woven through everything, never boastful or heavy-handed, just this constant undercurrent of warmth that said: “I’m so proud of you.”

And every email - whether one line or much longer - ended the same way: “Love DAD.” Always capitalised like that. I thought it was silly sometimes. I knew who the emails were from - his name was right there in my inbox. But looking back now, I see it for what it was. An emotional sign-off. Love. Dad. Both things stated clearly, every single time. He never forgot. Never rushed it. Never dropped the sentiment. It was his emotional anchor, and it became mine too.

Alongside the emails, he even signed up for Instagram and LinkedIn too - an 80-year-old man learning new platforms purely to follow my posts, to stay connected to my life. That meant everything, because he was genuinely interested. He genuinely cared.

At our wedding last October, all that attention he’d been paying became very public. When he stood up to do the Father of the Bride speech, he basically reeled off my CV for 10 minutes. Every job, every achievement, every milestone, like he’d memorised it all. It made me realise how much he’d been holding onto all those years.

However, his pride in me was surpassed when Audrey and then Jasper arrived.

Dad once said that he’d made peace with being long gone before he ever met any of his grandchildren. He’d accepted that as his reality. And then I had two back-to-back, and he was just obsessed with them.

He called Audrey his lovely girl. Jasper was his beautiful blue-eyed boy. And he was so delighted that both of them inherited his bright blue Scaman eyes. When I look at them now, that’s going to be one of the features I love most, because he is living on in them. He knew that. He loved that. He was so happy to be a granddad in a way I don’t think he ever imagined he’d get to be.

He would stop strangers in the street just to tell them about his grandchildren. He’d be at the house every week without fail, so spend time with them. And even though he struggled to get back up again, he’d lower himself down onto the floor to play with them, let them jump all over him, climb on him like he was furniture. He’d stay for bedtime, for bathtime, watch them eat - which he hated because it was so messy and chaotic and food would end up everywhere - but he just adored them. And they loved their Papa right back.

He revelled in family gatherings, loved having all of us together. He’d come with his camera, documenting everything, taking photos of all the little moments. We got a card reader last week so we could access the SD cards. He was a terrible photographer - everything blurry, too close up, weird angles, terrible lighting. But it’s a collection of love. And it’s beautiful to see it all through his eyes now.

He knew his time with them was limited and precious, he said so often. But I’m so happy he was there for both their first birthdays and two family Christmases with us all together. I’ll cherish those times and memories, as I know he did, especially based on the mountains of terrible photos he took at each.

And in all those moments together, he made sure they knew how much he adored them, and how proud he was of them. To Audrey, “You are lovely, you are lovely,” said over and over again in her ear as he held her close. Or to Jasper, “You are so beautiful, you beautiful beautiful boy,” whispered to the top of his head as they walked together, holding hands.

Even when we were saying our goodbyes, or we thought we were saying our goodbyes, the night before the surgery - a good 11 days before he actually passed - even though he knew he might never wake up again, that we might never see each other again, he spent those last conscious moments doing the same for me. Telling me how proud he was. Of me, of the kids, of Jon. Filling my sails even when he wasn’t sure he’d be coming back. That was Dad. That’s who he was. That’s what mattered to him. Right to the very end, he was thinking about us. Loving us. Making sure we knew.

And maybe he didn’t realise it - but I hope he did - I was just as proud of him. Always have been. Always will be.

The kids are still blowing kisses to his photo in the kitchen. And when they do, I realise he’s not really gone. He lives on in us, in our memories, in those moments we carry with us. In Audrey and Jasper’s bright blue eyes. In the pride and love he imbued in all of us. In the way I am, the way I love my own children, in every small, ordinary moment that I now see through his eyes as precious and meaningful. He’s there in the blurry photos, in the “Love DAD” sign-offs I’ll never receive again but will always be so thankful for, in the Sunday roasts and the late night holiday adventures, the dance in the town square. He shaped us. He made us who we are. And that will never, ever fade.

I love you, Dad. So much. I miss you more than I can say. And I hope, wherever you are, you know how grateful I am to be your daughter. Thank you for making me who I am. Love, Zoe.