I went to drama school when I was in my early 20s. In a movement class I was given one of the best pieces of advice I have ever had in my life. I’ve recited this advice at cocktail parties and told it to as many nieces, daughters and sons as I can. And, now I’m going to tell it here.
 
Our movement teacher had the unenviable task of training a bunch of extremely giggly, wanna-be actors how to play power. How to become believable empresses, emperors or rulers of nations. How to play status. We were all standing around a dance studio, one of those rehearsal rooms with massive mirrors along one wall. Mirrors on this scale make me dreadfully self-consciousness. To stop myself from checking my thighs I stared at my hands – they were covered in scribbled biro notes and a cartoon of a penis. We must have seemed a pretty tough challenge.
 
So, how does an actor play status? How can an ordinary girl be a queen? The answer is quite simple – well, it's simple to say but harder to achieve – take up more space!
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Girls and women are constantly told by society that less is good. Less size, height, fat, volume. We are encouraged to take up as little space in life as possible. We stand with our feet too close together – this it means we fall over and don’t run well. If girls are tall they tend to round their shoulders and hunch their backs – to appear shorter, smaller, petite. To diminish themselves. The rounded shoulders can lead to shortness of breath – girls often don’t breathe deeply enough. We tend to speak softly even a little too quietly. A woman raising her voice is still a shocking thing. Women also tend to speak a little bit too quickly. They diminish themselves in volume, and even in time. Women tend to cross their legs when seated in order to appear as small as they can possibly be ­– even though this is bad for our circulation. We fold our arms as well. We do all this even if we already have a slight frame. We perform all this shrinkage because, apparently, it makes us appear more attractive, more feminine.
 
If you want to play a queen you have to do the opposite, you need to stand with your legs a bit further apart than you are used to. You move steadily, you don’t rush (can you imagine the queen running for a bus?), you speak clearly and slightly more slowly than you naturally speak. Take time to breathe. Open your shoulders, stand tall, lift your chin slightly. Let others make room for you, let others come to you. Look when you are ready to look, speak when you are ready to speak.
 
It’s a fun exercise and it is worth taking note of yourself while you try it out. What feels uncomfortable? What does my self-confidence struggle most with? Does it feel odd sitting with my knees apart? (I have a tendency to prudishness and I struggle with parted knees)
 
This advice was given primarily to a bunch of girls but it could easily apply to many young men of today. And, it could apply to a certain sort of person in reverse – there are times when it can really help to lower your own status to allow others to feel less threatened. Lower your guard, make yourself a little smaller, so you can listen. Make room for someone else and go the extra distance to reach out to them.
 
After all, we aren’t really the queen and we do have to run for busses. We do have to listen to others. And, there is great value in humility.
 
There are times in life when it can be helpful, if not actually important, to remember that inside you lives a potential king or queen. It is a good exercise to regularly take yourself for a regal walk. Feel your strength and your true size – be undiminished. 

It's been nearly two years since my father died. And I have two main observations. One is simple and the other less so. I'll start with the less so.

His voice keeps coming to me – clear as day. Almost as if he were in the room with me. It can be quite startling. I've wondered a little teeny bit about my sanity. Although I feel sure that I'm quite sane. (Gawd, isn't that what mad people say?)
I think the answer to my hearing his voice so often and so vividly is that Dad spent so much time talking to me. Although he isn't here to speak to me himself I still have a life-time of commentary on a kind of pre-recorded loop in my subconscious. I have him on shuffle. Certain situations act as a trigger and 'poof '– there he is with an aside or opinion. 
It's rather wonderful. He told me he was proud of me earlier today. I haven't done much that merits pride recently but it was nice to hear. It was nice to hear his voice. I look forward to these interjections. Some of them are funny.

The more straight-forward observation is that I believe he died well. Not that there is a right or wrong way – but that he was lucky enough to be able to demonstrate a half-decent exit. 
On a visit to see him with my brother, during one of his spells in a hospice, he looked rather serious. I could tell he'd been ruminating something. I was a little nervous as to what this serious something might be. He leaned over from his bed – to make sure he had our attention and that we'd hear every word – and told us that he wasn't afraid to die. He said that he would miss us both when he was gone – but that for himself he felt no fear. That simple thing, telling us that he wasn't afraid, while hard to hear, has been one of the most beautiful things. I’ve clung to it throughout all the stages of my grief for the loss of him.
I should say now – because his voice just popped into my head and asked me to – that he had plenty of fore-warning of his imminent death. He had a bit of time to think about it and come to terms with it.
But, telling me that he wasn’t afraid was a great kindness and permission. Perhaps counter-intuitively, it has made me value life even more. I think the last lesson he offered me was me how to die well. And not to waste good time fearing my own.
 
Raising a glass to you dear old Pa Greaves.