I was looking through a box of old photos yesterday that I found in mum and dad's garage. I laid next to my dad while he slept and looking through images of him young and vibrant and beautiful got me remenicing. My dad came to England from Cyprus when he was 16. His mum sent him here to make a better life for himself. When he arrived he had £20 in his pocket and spoke no English at all. Dad got a job almost immediately, washing up dishes in the Connaught Rooms Hotel where his journey towards speaking English and his new life would begin, so far from home. Dad worked hard and endlessly, every hour he could and after a few years of working in hairdressers ( which he had done in Cyprus) eventually bought his own salon on Ladbroke Grove where he would employ the most beautiful girl in the shortest mini skirt who would soon become his wife and a few years later a mother to my sister, then my brother, then me. My dad was the life and soul. He knew everyone and everyone had time for him. I adored walking down the streets with him. It felt like being with a celebrity. 'Alright Tone?!' passers- by would shout. He was a charmer, a wheeler and dealer, and had a zest for life and success that was magical and inspiring. On hot, balmy London summer days, dad would take all the chairs in the salon outside and customers would get their hair done out on the pavement. Dad would set up extension leads for the hairdryers and music and laughter would flood the street. Dad in his absolute element . He created such a buzz wherever he went. I used to go with him most Saturday mornings to the flower market where we would buy the most exotic flowers. Colours that I didn't know existed. Colours that felt like I'd been taken to foreign lands. Dad would fill our house and the salon with them and plant bulbs in our garden that would transform it in the summer into a wonderland. He grew fig trees wherever he could and every outside space he had, would be transformed into Cyprus. In the middle of London and with his newly learnt language, the Cypriot in him would shine through bright and fierce and beautiful and dad would bring colour wherever he went. We were not rich but mum and dad worked incredibly hard and when we were little, dad decided to dig out a swimming pool in our back garden. We lived on a busy main road but our garden was brimming with figs and grape vines and cucumbers and flowers and eventually a pool. We didn't get an expensive firm to make it. Dad and his friends did it. It took about 6 months and it was incredible. We had such brilliant times in that garden. We would invite neighbours and friends for a swim and it felt like being on holiday. Dad had never learnt to swim. He built the pool for us but also so he could carry on practicing. He never did learn but the pleasure he got from us having fun was enough. While I sat with dad today we spoke about the pool and dad said I broke his dream from last night. He said he had learnt to swim. I hope it was a brilliant dream dad. I love my dad. He came to England with big dreams. I hope he's proud of himself. I am so proud of everything he has achieved since that young boy arriving here. I'm proud to be his daughter. To be half Cypriot. I'm proud to be a part of his story. Stories are so beautiful aren't they? Our own journeys aren't the only ones that shape us. Other peoples stories have a big part to play too. They are what make us, us. I'm so glad to be a part of dad's.
