My Dad was an ordinary but extraordinary man. An engineer. Big hands. Not once throughout the entirety of my growing up, did I hear him swear. I have lots of very happy memories of my magical childhood. Arts and crafts, model making, dressing up and music on the Dynatron. Recording my own radio shows on a reel-to-reel Grundig. My parents were lovely. Married for 53 years, and well into their late seventies, they would walk to Leeds Market hand in hand, like two Lovebirds on a first date.

When Dad was dying, he was brought home for his final days. I left London and returned to Leeds to help my Mum and Sister. We had an amazing NHS palliative care team visit us daily from Jimmies. All of them Angels and especially the ‘Big Lad’ one of two male nurses who would watch him overnight so we could try to get some sleep upstairs. In those short seven weeks I realised just how precious my father was. How he had given me so much as a boy, taught me how to be creative and independent. He had given his little man his best days.

My favourite memory is when my hardworking parents had little money for a summer holiday that year. When times were good, we would have maybe two or even three short holidays from May to August: Typically small guest houses, bed, breakfast and evening meal in Scarborough, Bridlington, Blackpool. Never abroad. Somewhere on the coast. Northern. But this particular year money was short. But still Dad would take me out for the day. Day trips to the seaside and places like York for Romans and Vikings or the Lakes and Grange over Sands. Wallace Arnold coaches from The Calls for a whole day or often, a half day. Packed lunches. Again, to save on the dosh. This time we are on a train. An old-fashioned train. Those with a corridor and compartments. I loved the ‘clunk’ those heavy doors made. Great big solid handles. I have no idea why he wanted to take me to Hull. The only thing I remember is the seagull. Standing on the top of a golden statue. It had pooed on the head of this golden statue in Hull. King William III was not amused. That’s all I remember of Hull. Made me appreciate my hometown. But the return journey back to Leeds City Station was very special.

We had a compartment all to ourselves. The bouncy seats had arms you could pull down, a tiny window big enough to get a head through and ‘antimacassars’. Dad explained it was to protect the headrest from oily hair. I do not know how it started. Or why it started. But Dad started singing. He never sang. He was a quiet man. It was Mam who was noisy, boisterous and the heart and soul of every party, known locally as ‘Bonnie Lass’ as she never lost her County Durham accent. Dad had a blood hound face and looked a real party pooper. It was his face. Jowly. Looked miserable most of the time. Until he smiled. Then he lit up a room. Lovely blue eyes. Anyway, Dad started to sing ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ by Dame Vera Lynn, the forces sweetheart, from the Second World War. Dad sang it beautifully. Then he patiently taught me the words. Together we started to sing “There'll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover, tomorrow, just you wait and see…”