A concerned parent writes

My mum was never one much for writing, even before the Alzheimer's stopped her from being able to do so. My dad, on the other hand, was always jotting down short notes and sending them to me.

Compared to all the other letters I've got in the box (and isn't letter writing a dying art, eh?) my dad's were short and to the point - each one practically a "to do" list. Although this one, sent on 14 December 1991 is more circumspect and melancholy. It was most likely written after his second heart attack (the one that really took it out of him) and you can read the worry and the resignation between the lines. He'd have only been 55. Three years later and he'd be dead.

Of course, this is some time after I'd been chucked out of university but was still living in Aberystwyth (sharing with Irish Mark, Nerys and co. in rooms above what was The Central Hotel), working at Bronglais hospital for a pittance. In fact, after Christmas, I moved into Glynderwen, the shared house on Trinity Road with Rich, Ad, Big Steve, et al, largely due to a falling out with the landlord but in part a separate falling out with Nerys. It was better being around close friends, even if I did have the smallest, coldest room in the house. Even if I was the only one putting money in the electricity meter. Even if I did come home every night with a slightly more corroded soul after a day's denigration by an overzealous boss.

Despite my dad's stirling work with the local education authority in Lancashire, I didn't seriously contemplate a return to university until the following summer (and, by that time, it was too late to return in the '92-'93 year). But I did make it eventually, after a further "year out", back at home. Which at least meant I got to spend more time with family, and I earned a lot more money.