Straight Toes

It's an odd title for a blog, I know. Its just that I was having breakfast in the garden this morning, bare foot and enjoying the sunshine, when I looked down at my own feet. My toes are quite straight, in fairly good order, with no obvious defect. The relevance of this is only when I compare my feet to those of my father, whom passed away in 2007. His toes were badly bent, scrunched right over to such an extent that in order to have straightened them he would have had to have each individual toe broken and reset in the correct alignment. The reason for this is that he was raised in abject poverty, having to wear hand me down shoes, one of several children born to blue collar working class stock whom lived in the North Marston, Oving area of Buckinghamshire. Country folk, poor, having to scratch around and make do for everything. Me being me, upon reflecting on this I decided to get irritated about the whole concept of straight white privilege, this woke term thrown around by social justice warriors. They hurl it like chimps hurl excrement in the direction of anybody whom happens to be straight and white. I wonder what these fools would have made of my father whom ticked both those boxes? Could they honestly say his upbringing ascribed him privilege? I'd have liked to see them try. No, he had to fight, he had to toil, he had to do the work of an honest man for long hours as he raised his young family. His sweat ensured we never had to wear hand me down shoes, or miss a meal, or want for anything. Hard work, long hours, for year upon year, creating a painting and decorating business that was well known in the local area. He never had to advertise, people just knew who to call, a bit like the Ghostbusters. He was as far removed from privilege as it was possible to be, and his work ethic was a thing he passed on to me. I'm proud to work like a trojan, proud that I support my family, pay my taxes, do my bit for society. Does that make me privileged? Perhaps it just makes me an honest guy who wants to live his life in the right way. I don't like being placed in a box of any kind, or labelled, or told that I am this thing or that thing. I'm my own thing, and so are you. I wonder why we are so keen to do this? You know what, I've no idea why I started to write this; it was just the image of my fathers deformed toes in contrast with my British standard one's. It's an odd thing to reflect upon perhaps, but as we approach 12 years since his passing I remain grateful for the foundations he laid for me. I'm not melancholy about his death; death happens and it's a part of our life cycle. He lived his life and now he's gone, creating a space for someone else. That's the gig.