The captain of the ship
Everything had a tacky film coating it from the heat of this particularly humid and sticky summers day. As he tipped the contents of the putrid overladen bin out onto the kitchen bench-top, I had a split second to make the decision - should I laugh or should I cry. I sensed both emotions waiting at the door of expression. My 18 year old self, desperate to do things professionally and create some sort of sturdy adult-worthy footing from this crumbling beer-stained establishment, was starting to realise that my father and the idea of ‘professional prestige’ that I held so tightly, were not in any way interwoven and could in no way co-exist.
