Yesterday, I listened to the old messages on my answering machine because I wanted to hear my dad again. “Jennie, it’s your dad…” As if I wouldn’t recognise that voice anytime, anywhere in the world. This week, a year has passed since my dad died. It’s more than a year since I last heard his voice in real time and, God knows, I miss him. His calls drove me nuts sometimes, phoning at 6am on a Sunday because it was 8 o’clock in South Africa, going: “Are you not awake yet?” But him not being out there in the…

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