The quiet heroism of ordinary life...

I have been having a really bad week at work. I can't exactly say why by pinning it down to just one or two things: it's obviously more complex and therefore less easy to fix.

The truth is that while there are aspects of my job which I revel in and truly enjoy, there are others which I defy anyone to find even remotely pleasant.

On top of it all, I have been feeling put-upon and ill-used.

All, in all, then, thoroughly fed-up.

Then it occured to me that my Dad spent my formative years, the last of his youth and all of his middle-age working away at a job he didn't particularly enjoy to provide for us all.

It can't have been easy, and neither, I'll bet, was it much fun.

Yet he carried on doing it, day in, day out, for years.

I feel humbled by that.

Here I am, moaning on about a job I've only been doing for eighteen months, and this, the first Proper Job I've ever had.

For those of you who don't know, I was a bit of a late-developer in the 'Responsible Adult' department, having swilled away my twenties and thirties arsing around on stage as an actor, singer and latterly, stage-manager. Having lived in The West End in Dean Street, served my apprenticeship in The French House pub and been admitted to the ranks of Soho's demi-monde, I packed it all in to marry Jackie and move up to Cambridge and wb Pippin.

To coin a rather over-worked phrase, I got a life.....

And life is good.

The lesson it seems to be teaching me this week is the importance of the quiet heroes like my Dad, who worked their whole lives for others and never really bothered to think about it, because that's what you did.

Heroes indeed.

Thanks, Dad.x