My father Gordon and I were very different creatures. He was a carpenter by trade, very practical by nature. He really tried to get me to follow in his foot steps on this, but no matter how hard he tried, I just didn’t get it. I couldn’t saw straight, more likely to stab myself with a chisel than use it correctly, couldn’t hammer a nail in without bending it, and don’t get me started on using a plane. The lowest point for him, and I do understand his shame, was that I was thrown out of woodwork at school, and he was given a dressing down from the teacher. It would be fair to say that school didn’t like working class boys in the ranks but that’s another post.

As we were poor, Dad used his hobbies to make ends meet. Angling was his greatest passion, this of course fed us. It was usually wrasse or garfish, but the occassional bass was a treat indeed. Once again I was a disappointment, I wasn’t enamoured with hours of digging for bait, couldn’t cast a line for toffee, and generally spent my time wishing the tide would go out faster.

I was much more of a head in books child, my taste for collecting facts was limited only by what I could hold in. Luckily for me, my parents indulged this, children’s encyclopaedias were provided. Then I was given The Observer’s Book of Aircraft. A game changer in our relationship. I was fascinated by it. Dad, who built kits, usually old sailing ships, saw the chance to engage me fully. An Airfix kit found its way into my Christmas stocking. I remember it well, a Junkers 88. Too complicated for me, but I sat next to Dad, reading out the instructions to him and test fitting the parts before he applied the cement. It was magical. Finally something we could do together. It never ended with tantrums or in tears, disturbed on a Sunday afternoon only by Mum’s call to clear the table for tea.

I will expand more fully on the journey in further posts, but this was the genesis of what I do today.