Land of my fathers. And mothers...

I had hoped for good weather today so that I could get out on my bike but rain stopped play until lunchtime. I then popped to the supermarket for some smoked mackerel. My father liked mackerel. Perhaps that is where I get it from? Frankly, my father liked all foods; I can't think of anything he didn't like. For some reason, I've thought about him quite a lot recently. Physically, I follow my father. I grow more and more like him with every day that passes. I look in the bathroom mirror each morning and my dad stares back at me. He died 7 years ago. He was 71 and had Alzheimer's. I think he just gave up.

Emotionally, I follow my mother. Principled to the point of stubbornness and with a pyrotechnic temper; she is not to be toyed with. I don't think I'm particularly principled but I can be stubborn and I have a pyrotechnic temper. She is now 72 and still going strong. My mother did not want to be the cutesy, ringletted belle her mother wanted her to be. No, she dreamt of playing the saxophone and liked messing about on bikes; she was a bit of a rebel. Perhaps that's where I get my liking for cycling from?

I followed the river, cycling up through Bute Park towards Maindy Swimming Pool (Cardiff International Pool being closed again). The weather had certainly improved from the morning and the park was full of people enjoying themselves. I cycled past the Royal Welsh College of Music & Drama, which I left 25 years ago. The facilities have certainly improved since I was there; an impressive new building with terraces backing on to the park.

And onwards past Blackweir to Maindy Pool. The water temperature was, as usual, too warm. When I got changed after swimming, I noticed a text on my phone. It was from my mother. She was at a family do today and had bought some new make-up to wear to it, along with a new pair of glasses. My mother never wears makeup but she had treated herself to some. She admitted in the week to being a little nervous about applying it, given the time that had elapsed since she last used make-up. Contained within the text was a photo of her in full slap before she set out. I think she looks beautiful.

Oscar Wilde wrote that, "All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his."