Memories of Dad (read by Julian at the Funeral Service) One of my first memories of Dad is when he came back from a business trip bearing gifts and telling tales of a far-off technological land. It was the early 80s and he had been to Tokyo. He gave both Steve and I Casio digital watches – a fascinating thing I had never seen before. I remember thinking how impressed my friends would be, and how important my Dad must be to go to such far-off places. Foreign travel was one of his passions and his work often took him away. There were certain things that he always maintained you had to go abroad for. One of those things was a haircut. He always complained about his English haircuts, and typically preferred instead to leave it longer, so that he could get a ‘proper’ haircut abroad. Sometimes a project would mean he would go back to the same place again and again, making good friends with colleagues on repeat visits. One particular group of them, who met in Brussels, formed what they informally called “The Dangerous Eating Club”. They’d seek out the hottest, spiciest, strangest food in cosmopolitan Brussels and he’d come home with tales of sweating through restaurant ordeals, making his business trips sound less like boring “debates about messaging standards” and more like “bush tucker trials”. Food was a big part of his life. He loved good food and I particularly remember going to special restaurants for special celebrations with the family. At home, he would often cook a special meal on a Saturday night. Mum was the excellent weekday cook, but Dad was the Saturday chef. I got the sense that Mum quite liked getting 1 day in the week off, but sometimes the food was just way too spicy. She often reminds me of a time when we had our first taste of the dish while Dad was still in the kitchen. It was volcanic. I leaned over to her and whispered “Don’t say anything… otherwise he won’t cook any more”. -- In 1987 Dad gave up his job in London to become an independent consultant – self employed. He set up his office in our smallest bedroom and disappeared into it, working long hours, determined to make a success of it. The room filled with paperwork, and computers. One day shortly after, I got home from school and heard a horrendous electronic screeching from upstairs. I assumed that a computer was having a meltdown, I ran up stairs to help… But everything was actually fine. Turns out the internet had arrived early in our house and the sound was from a modem. Dad was a working-from-home pioneer! He used to have a sign up in his office: “Work like hell … and we’ll soon get there”. He worked on projects, so that meant deadlines. For him that always meant working all the way up to the wire – squeezing in every possible hour to make the thing as good as it could possibly be. I think: he made good money. We always had what we needed, and we went on nice holidays. Dad wasn’t flashy though – his C-reg beige Passat was a solid fixture of my entire childhood and teen years. He was always there to support us. I remember cycling miles to a pub one afternoon to meet up with friends. Inevitably I stayed longer than I intended. It got dark and I had no lights. I rang home – really apologetic – to say I couldn’t get home… Dad came to the rescue in the beige Passat – not a cross word - just secretly pleased I had asked for help and hadn’t attempted to cycle home in the dark. In the spring of 1990, I got the results of my 11+ exam: I had failed. I was devastated that I would not be able to go to the same school as Steve. Dad was amazing... He took on the appeals process, through to the final stage where he and Mum had to go before a committee at County Hall and make my case. It worked, and the appeal was granted. I was elated. A couple of years ago I came across the paperwork from that time. Among the various type-written letters of correspondence there were four hand-written drafts of the things he wanted to say that day, to the committee. In each successive draft, he honed and distilled his arguments further and further, refining it down to a perfectly concise 1 page case and summary. One piece stood out. Under “characteristics”, he said: “Sensitive individual. Very Creative. Slightly unorthodox approach to some things. Needs to be free to determine his own approach.” Reading these words 30 years later, I was astonished to learn something entirely new about myself. This insight of his is completely correct, and on reflection, it explains a lot about the struggles and successes I have had in my career. Dad’s support was always unconditional. He stepped in and helped where you needed it, but never demanded anything in return. The flip side of that was that you should never expect gushing praise if you did something really good. Highest praise from him was when he cocked his head to the side and said “hum.. not bad..” -- When he first took up sailing he got a 2-person boat and he and I used to go sailing together. These were special times, chatting and tacking in his little boat. I also remember many evenings sat in the lounge with him, he’d love a conversation or intellectual debate, always active and interested. His sense of humour was legendary. He loved silly stuff, like Monty Python and The Goons. He liked to think up silly words and phrases that often played on the oddities of the English language. • Instead of “Sheep” he would say “Sheeps”, “Fishes”, “Feets”. • A mobile phone was never a mobile phone, it was a “phobile mone”, • and shops got the treatment too… --- Wickes was “Wickies”, --- IKEA was “ih-keey-ah” --- and the DIY store “Do it all” was called “Bugger it up”. Dad was never one to draw attention to himself…. Except when he was opening a present. He was infuriating. He’d shake and squeeze and sniff the package, making guesses as to what it was. We thought he was trying to spoil the surprise for himself. So often, he was ruthlessly accurate – but guessing it right didn’t spoil it for him at all, he loved the satisfaction of thinking it through, and getting it right. This sense of fun and intellectual interest in the world never left him, and I don’t think it will leave us either.

Poem by David Harkins... You can shed tears that he is gone Or you can smile because he has lived You can close your eyes and pray that he will come back Or you can open your eyes and see all that he has left Your heart can be empty because you can't see him Or you can be full of the love that you shared You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday You can remember him and only that he is gone Or you can cherish his memory and let it live on You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back Or you can do what he would want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

Thank you for setting up this memorial to Robert. We hope that you find it a positive experience developing the site and that it becomes a place of comfort and inspiration for you to visit whenever you want or need to.