Amy's Eulogy My Grandad was as uncomplicated as they come. He didn’t care for fuss, or drama or change. Even though it was inevitable. The past year has been incredibly tough for us all in many ways and, although it drove me absolutely crazy sometimes, I understand his desire to protect his family and keep everything as it was – as it should be. Because, after all, he was so much more than the past few weeks and months. So, just like he would have wanted, we’re going to remember him how he was before. For me he will live on in tucked away childhood memories, that pop up when I most need them to. Like his nickname for me – Bubbles. Quite an affectionate nickname considering it was because of my penchant for blowing spit bubbles. Or when he would bounce me on his knee and sing The Big Ship Sails in the Alley Alley Oh – a tradition I have since learned he carried on from when my dad and uncle were kids. He’ll pop up in my memories during simple acts, like making a cup of tea, when I’ll be reminded that my first cuppa was smuggled to me by my Grandad in my bottle. (Thanks for the caffeine addiction, Grandad!) He’ll be right there, whenever I accidentally switch on Dad’s Army or Last of the Summer Wine and I’ll remember how I used to loathe it and moan for him to switch over. He never would and now I’m so glad he didn’t. He’ll be with my brother should he ever have a game of poker with his mates and he’ll remember how Grandad taught him to play it during his weekly visits to our grandparents. They’d use two pence pieces as chips and Christopher couldn’t believe how brilliant he was for an 8 year old. But of course we know now that Grandad would let him win every time. He’ll be beside my dad whenever he watches the darts and he’ll think back to taking my Grandad to a championship match for his 70th birthday and turning his back for five minutes at the bar only to turn back and find my usually unassuming Grandad stood on the tables, wearing foam fingers on his hands, singing and dancing. He’ll be with my Grandma always. In nearly sixty years worth of memories – of children, grandchildren, endless holidays and of course their cats. It is incredibly hard to put their lifetime together into words, so I won’t try to. Except to say that that there was never one without the other, never my grandma without my grandad. And as long as I have my Grandma, my Grandad will never be far away. Our memories of the past year will still bring us comfort too, much to my grandads dismay I’m sure. For me, when my Grandma and I went shopping and he told her to spoil me. It reminded me of when he won the lottery when I was a kid by playing numbers I picked and he got me new boots and the most impressive Polly Pocket you’ve ever seen. For my brother, his perfect last conversation with his Grandad that he will always cherish, and a kiss on the head from Christopher that reflected the 24 years he got to spend with him, the 24 years that my Grandad got to watch him turn into a man. For my dad, a new tradition of daily walks or drives. Until the very end he was fiercely independent, even if that just meant getting out of the house for 10 minutes to do what he wanted. And when lockdown lifted, my dad took him on a well-deserved trip to the pub to see his friends – a comfort that felt just like any other Sunday that had come before. Even for my Grandma, who, through all the uncertainty and sadness of the past few months, can look back and laugh at the ridiculousness of the argument she had with him over a Cornish pasty. I often think about our frequent drives to and from his appointments. For a little while the memory stung, at first because of how it felt at the time – the reality of the situation, of why we had to take those drives, but then, more so selfishly, because I couldn’t have them back. I’ve tormented myself with should haves and could haves. I should have said something more meaningful, instead of the entire journey we spoke about trams. Or I could have pushed for more answers about how he was feeling. And in tormenting myself and in replaying our drives I was struck by a parallel and another memory flooded back. Of him walking me home every Wednesday from their house, after I had had my tea and suffered through Last of the Summer Wine. Every Wednesday at around 7pm, I would be walked home by my Grandad. That was a fact, it was a constant, a reliable. And 20 years later I got to do the same for him. So, I realised, we didn’t need to figure out the universe or solve the world’s problems on our drives, just being there was enough for Grandad. A constant, a reliable. The more thought me and my family have given these latest memories, the nicer they’ve become. And although we are sad, although we are grieving, although it stings a little still, above all else we are incredibly lucky. How lucky was my dad that he got those walks, that special one-to-one time that we otherwise take for granted. How lucky was he that he got to put a smile on Grandad’s face and a bit of normality with a pint in the pub. How lucky was my brother that he got the time to spend with him and make it count. That he got to tell him he loved him. How lucky are we both that we got to have him for so much of our lives. How lucky was my Grandma that amidst the sadness, there were moments of silliness, of laughter. How lucky am I that I got to be there for him and return the favour. How lucky am I that no matter how old I got, or who was looking out for who, I was always his Bubbles. How lucky are we that we know how lucky we are? And how lucky are we to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.

Thank you for setting up this memorial to Robert. We hope that you find it a positive experience developing the site and that it becomes a place of comfort and inspiration for you to visit whenever you want or need to.

I am I and you are you, whatever we were to each other that we still are. Speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? Life means all that it ever meant, it is the same as it ever was.