R.I.P. Grandad

My Grandad died last week.

For those who don't know, I'm talking about my Mam's Dad... My Dad's Dad died before I was born.

Anyway, my Grandad was 83 years old (he turned 83 at the start of December) and died in his sleep in the early hours of the morning of January 24th 2018.

Grandad's never been 100% healthy, and has had multiple close calls with his heart alone. So the fact he made it to 83 with how poor his health has always been is amazing. But that doesn't make it any easier.

It's good that, when the end did come, he went peacefully in his sleep, and didn't suffer in his final moments. I always think that's a nice way to go. But, when it comes right down to it, that doesn't really help much either.

I can't say I was close to my Grandad, though we had some things in common - he was a book-loving writer too. I didn't see him regularly, especially not in my adult life. But I do have some fond memories I can look back on.

My favourite is one from when I was about six. My Mam took my brother (Carl) and me up to London. We spent time with him, and got spoiled by him and his wife at the time, my Nanny Beryl (who died several years back). There were plenty of great parts about that trip, including getting our photo taken with one of the guards at Buckingham Palace. But my favourite part was sitting with Carl and Grandad while he read to us. I especially remember him reading a book called "Dogger" - I believe it's by Shirley Hughes - which was a story Carl and I both loved.

I don't have a copy of that book. But if I did, I'd read it right now in his memory.