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Robbie MacInnes, 03 Apr '14

I spoke to Father for the last time on my 12th birthday. He sent me up to unblock Greedy Brunswick’s chimney and when I came down he was gone.

This wasn’t unusual. He was a door-to-door door salesman and often had to run off because of his work.

He died two weeks later on a stilt-walking holiday in Penge. He was with his partner, Alphonse, when it happened.

They were buried in the same coffin (which was designed to look like a door). They were crammed in together and looked so sweet. I’d dressed them in matching umbrella-hats. That’s my business. It rained on the day of the funeral and I sold a fair few.

I wore a vest of made entirely of bunting but that was for marketing purposes.

Life goes on. Umbrella-hats to sell. Chimneys to clean. But sometimes, when I find myself walking through a door, or when I see a happy couple striding along a river bank on 10ft stilts, I do miss my old dad.