Toby Jugs and Cockatiels

There's a building on the east coast I'm starting to become quite familiar with. It's a strange place for me to find myself travelling so far to visit, it's not somewhere I ever particularly want to go, it doesn't provide or host any services I have any use for, and while it is functional, it's not especially welcoming. It's not even in a town I have any real connection with.

As a kid, the east coast of England meant holidays, it meant 8 hours in the car with 2 parents, a brother and a dog, it meant fish cakes and spaghetti bolognese and then a walk to the harbour for waffles. It meant long afternoons finding hidden places on the beach after an hour on the putting green, it meant second hand shops. It meant evening strolls timed so the sun set as the fairground lights came into view, it meant pestering for coins to feed arcade machines, starting with copper, then in a few years silver, before finally we needed pound coins, which we needed to earn, or take as cheeky gifts from sneaky grandparents. It meant going to see the donkeys, not on the beach but up the hill, it meant never quite walking all the way to the lighthouse, and it meant making dad wait for hours while we splashed around in the swimming pools or rolled around in skates. It meant falling completely in love with girls from Skegness who'd entered beauty contests and bursting into tears because the fear of talking to them was paralysing, it meant going fishing off the pier and catching nothing but crabs*, seagulls and twenty pound notes that had blown out of pockets. It meant bingo at the legion, shandies outside the half moon, wrestling at the spa and football in the park.

Most of all it meant visiting Grandparents, staying in their houses, living by their habits, and largely destroying the small gardens they'd work hard to maintain with childish exuberance and ball games, and sometimes their neighbours gardens too.

These days, as is the nature of things, what the east coast means is funerals, and next Monday is another one, the last of the Grandparents, and hopefully now the last for some time.

I haven't made the trip to see my Grandad for a long time, mostly because he hasn't really been there. The man I looked up to, the man who probably taught me more about strength, respect, and to some extent stoicism, simply by being himself than anybody else has done with words, the man who played the disciplinarian selflessly to allow my gran to play the humanitarian, the man who made the best bolognese I'll ever taste, he hasn't been there for a long time now. As my mum said in a recent unguarded moment, we said bye to him a long time ago. I probably didn't do it as well as most, I've been busy, and lazy, and inherently selfish, and the east coast is a long way from here, but the old merchant navy sailor and club steward who raised five kids in a two up two down West Yorkshire terrace while keeping himself quietly to himself, only ever asking to be allowed to watch his cricket and read his paper, is still somebody I won't forget.

I'm not sad he's died, I'm glad he's saved himself at least some of the indignity of growing confused and helpless, because of everybody I know he'd have most hated being seen the way he has in recent months, and of feeling like a burden. I'm glad his children can now get back to their own lives without having to sleep in shifts to make sure he's safe in the night, and I'm mostly glad that my mum can now get on with making the most of being a grandparent herself without also having to be a nurse.

I just hope the funeral director gets his facts right for this one.

My apologies, I'm as uncomfortable as you about the serious blog, but it's done me a favour and I don't think many people read this anyway. If it helps take the edge off, I've had a proper shit hair cut today and I'm about to go to a stand-up comedy show where the compere is known for mocking his audience. I might have something fun to write about that tomorrow.

*Don't.