Tears on the table...

You wouldn't think that a few bits of old wood could provoke such a reaction.

Pete was just up in the loft, passing down the Christmas decorations. But when he passed this table down, I just lost it.

I've spent the last fifteen minutes sitting on the top our our stairs, clutching this little table and washing it with tears.

I can't remember if it was last year, or the year before, but I mentioned to Dad that our Christmas tree was a bit low to the floor - there wasn't any room to fit presents underneath.

When I was little, we had a table that went under the Christmas tree, and I asked him if it was still in their loft, but it wasn't.

He asked me how big a table I needed for our tree, and that was that.

Two hours later, we dropped in to visit Mum and Dad on our way back from somewhere, and there, in their utility room, made from scrap wood he'd had in his garage, was this little table.

He'd even mitred the corners, and made a ledge round the edge to stop the tree sliding off.

'Don't go standing on it or anything,' Dad told me. 'I've made it in a rush, so it probably wouldn't take Charlie jumping on it, but it'll do the job.'

I was so pleased when he gave it to me, and so tickled that he'd made it so fast without me even really asking him to.

But now he's not here any more, this little table means even more. It smells like my dad's garage, and I can see the screws he's put in, and the glue he's used. I can see the marks from the sandpaper.

I'm so glad I've got it, but it hurts so much to look at it, and remember all Dad was, and all that we've lost.

I miss him so much.