It’s St Nicholas Day (well, a St Nicholas Day) and I’m about to hop on to a train to spend a week in Yorkshire visiting family. Then I’m going to Dorset.

After that I’m returning to Kent and – to celebrate – I bought myself new bedding from Skinnydip.

Following that I have a job interview in the Graduate College, and I’ve picked up some freelance writing too.

I’m still not feeling 100% but I feel positive (which, honestly, is good enough for me).

I reapplied for the job role I left in May ’19 last weekend, and was not shortlisted. I was surprised because I felt I met the criteria but then I remembered my exit interview and my experience in another job interview in January ’20. I figured I had burnt my bridges.

Weirdly I was thinking of this role yesterday when my father’s friend was talking about the past. He mentioned that sometimes people go back to places they knew before, but they are drawn to a memory – and the reality is different. Places change. And people too. I am glad I spoke to my father’s friend as I don’t think I would’ve coped with the rejection otherwise.

Instead I redyed my hair, did some more decorating, ran some errands, and got invited to another job interview in an even better place (unexpectedly!).

I spoke to my father’s friend earlier today. I phoned him because I wasn’t sure if he picked up an order of service at the funeral and I wanted to send him one in the post. He asked me how I’m getting on at work. I told him I left my library job because I was unwell, he said Your Dad was afraid of this. And the tears came again.

Every now and again something sets me off. And I’m not talking about a silent dignified cry – I’m talking snot rockets and wailing.

I’ve started taking photographs, and in a couple of months I’m returning to OCA. I feel a bit weird about photographing this time. Grief seems like something inappropriate to document. But then, this time feels poignant… worth preserving. Is it morbid? Callous? I feel a drive to create meaning from this time, and pain. Something to hold on to. Or rather, something to hold on to me.

It has been a week since the funeral. Since then I’ve been off ill; I picked up some sort of cough and dizziness. My thoughts are jumbled and my flashbacks are powerful.

I remember in the 1980s when my grandfather passed away, and a vivid dream when I thought he was saying goodbye to me. I figured my father would do the same. So I waited to see him in my dreams that night. Nearly a month has passed and I’m still searching for him in my dreams. A couple of times I thought I was close – a voice called out.

Another time I asked for some guidance before I slept. I woke up in the early hours, my occasional hallucinations returning as I tried to make sense of the unusual room I was in. I looked towards the ceiling and saw a small typed font. I struggled to see the words. I squinted. It looked like write in luminous white.

I didn’t want to carry on. But I felt guilty about feeling this way because so many people love me. I left my library job, which I enjoyed, because I didn’t want to leave my flat. Not until I saw my father one last time. I wanted to tell him about the my most powerful memory of him… when he taught me to ride my bicycle.

He ran behind me holding on to the luggage carrier. I picked up momentum but was still afraid of falling. I shrieked don’t let go! He said I’m not. The afternoon passed in this fashion. A few times I stopped feeling his weight on my back wheel. I shreiked again don’t let go! He reminded me he hadn’t. But his voice was further away. Perhaps five metres behind me. I wobbled.

I’m still holding on.

And that was enough. I felt safe and I carried on pedalling.

Dad, we think of you as we watch the sky tonight. Your light stays with us.