Grandad John.

As a change to the excitement of an imminent book release, I'm taking a break from promotions today. It would have been my Grandad's ninety second birthday, and I think of him every day. 
When he died in February, this year, there was immense grief (especially as I didn't get to say goodbye), but also a reassuring sense of peace.
He was more than ready to go. He'd had a fantastic life. Fought the Nazis as a young man, worked hard, raised a wonderful family. His sense of humor always made me laugh and his explosive sneezes made me jump. When he visited me, we went to tea shops and ate cream cakes. I used to drag him around all my friends' houses to visit.
He snored, terribly, like a freight train. We shared a room when I took him to Iona in 2004 and I had to wear ear-plugs every night. He was almost inexhaustible. I dragged him around Ottawa when he was in his 70s, and he kept up every step of the way. If he was still here, we'd be having a cup of tea and some biscuits, and he'd be recounting the exact same conversation we had every time we met up. 
Cheers, Grandad. Happy Birthday. I feel like I should send you a card, even now, but I'm sad I couldn't write what you always wrote to me ''Many Happy Returns of the Day."  But I'll never forget the good times we shared.

And this song makes me think of him, every time it is played on the radio.