w.atching the w.orld unw.ind

The start of the bank holiday was tinged with some very sad news.

Keith was the husband of a former work-colleague of Mrs.D’s and became a very good friend of ours.

His bluff, gruff persona inevitably hid a very warm-hearted character, who was happiest when making things good for other people. He was also the only person who ever managed to drag me to a football match (his firm sponsored the team, so we had a box). And the floodlights failed.

I had to laugh.

He ‘phoned me at work one morning to ask if I could insure an advertising balloon. When he gave me the dimensions, I said it’d be a hazard to air traffic, but I’d see what I could do. When did he need cover from? “About ten minutes ago – the ruddy thing’s broken free from its hawser and is floating somewhere over Kent.”

I had to laugh.

Way back – B.C. (Before Children) the four of us drove down to the South of France in his beloved ‘silver bullet’ (an old Merc). For the last day, he promised we’d max out on his company credit card, but then got sunstroke and collapsed, so failed to live up to his promise.

I had to laugh.

He came from Stockport, so he was an Old Stoconian, which was the name of his home.

I had to laugh.

Then, last Thursday, one day after his sixtieth birthday, he died.

I had to cry.