* Photo supplied. The Julian Hall we knew: they had their ups and downs, and their blazing rows, but Julian Hall was adored and idolised by his three daughters. Claudia, 17, left, Nadia, 27, second right, and Liana, 24, far right, are pictured last year at Mr. Hall’s house in Dockyard during the last Christmas they would spend with their father.
* Photo supplied. The Julian Hall we knew: they had their ups and downs, and their blazing rows, but Julian Hall was adored and idolised by his three daughters. Claudia, 17, left, Nadia, 27, second right, and Liana, 24, far right, are pictured last year at Mr. Hall’s house in Dockyard during the last Christmas they would spend with their father.
I have read many tributes this week and they have all been a huge comfort to me despite serving to punctuate the enormity of our loss.

Now, I never really knew my father as a lawyer; I never knew him as a politician; never knew him as a businessman either. Was he, to me, a "giant among men"? Of course. He was my father.

Standing four feet ten in one sock atop his sock, fingers laced, embraced in that dance that fathers and daughters do; he not only dwarfed me in size, but in experience and in wisdom. He could answer any question. I would hang on his every word. To me, and to many, he seemed invincible. But I, like so many, grew up. And he became more human, more fallible and, sadly, as our last weeks together showed me, not invincible.

But he knew this better than anyone. As time progressed, the years between us seemed less. We were two adults with more questions and fewer answers; we would argue and we would laugh. My father was equal parts rude and equal parts tender. He was handsome and he was goofy.

In his speech at the BIU conference 'From Butchie With Love' he spoke of the "dash" that connects day one to the day you die. "It's what you do with the dash that's important," he pressed. The future gave him great concern and he was often up all night battling with it. He was plagued daily with a responsibility he felt to his community and with other things he could not understand. On the phone, his 3am was my 7am and, in our separate timezones, we comforted each other with a daily dialogue I will cherish forever. In the high-pressured heat of serious discussion we often do not hear what is really being said and, in a particular confrontation, I did not hear him at all.

"Do something!" he urged.

In the days that led up to his passing I realised his words were not another lesson, but a warning. Was I not all those things he had wished for me to be? Did I not display the character traits he deemed so important?

Of course I did. He was immensely proud.

But what does it mean to have these gifts, if you are not prepared to do something with them?