Farewell to our darling old man

It has been just over a month since we had to bid farewell to our darling old lady, and now our favourite old man has also bid his final farewell.

            On Thursday afternoon I received a very sad email from dad, saying that our darling Grandad had given up the fight, and that he died peacefully in the night. We knew that he had taken a turn for the worst, but after Gma battled through her supposed one-week time limit with weeks more, I think I had lulled myself into the false sense of security that he would still have plenty of time to play with. Sadly, it was not the case.

Our old boy 

Losing your old people is a horrible thing if you were close to them growing up, and there really isn’t anything to prepare you for it. Whilst it’s sad to think that you won’t see them again, it’s really when you look back at all the things that they were there for, and just how much you have to be grateful for that it begins to open the floodgates. Whilst your parents are obviously number one when you’re growing up, it’s strange to think how much of an impact your old people have on shaping the person you become. 

Grandad was the one who handmade and decorated forts and dolls houses for us when we were little. He read us Winnie the Pooh and Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories whenever we stayed the night at their house (in either the yellow or the pink room, depending on whether Catherine was staying too – she always got first dibs). He kept the most amazing roses and flowerbeds, creating the ultimate garden for children’s birthday parties. His house always provided the open door policy for friends and family alike, which I always hope to replicate. He never turned down the request to host a dinner or a party, and year after year he permitted 10 girl strong sleepovers to dominate the entire downstairs floor of his house.

Our old boy made the ultimate homemade marmalade that would be served with Aga toast, croissants and coffee every Sunday, come rain or shine, from 11am-noon. He always had a not-so-secret stash of crystallised fruits and dark chocolate in his cupboards, and when he did or said anything remotely naughty his little moustache would twitch at the edges when he giggled.  Oh how I am going to miss that amazing moustache.

In loving memory of a Sunday tradition that ought to last forever

One of the most vivid memories I have of my Grandad was when I must have been around five or six years old – it wasn’t really an occasion, but something about it was glorious enough to have remained perfectly ingrained in my mind. I can still remember that I was sitting on a bench at his wooden kitchen table looking out into the driveway, with rain streaming down the window. He was looking after me on his own, and he was making me lunch. There was "yellow fish" (known to the rest of the world as smoked haddock), poached in milk in the microwave in a cream plastic dish with a tight fitting white lid. He scooped out the fish, and added a slice of fat cut bacon with the rind cut off and crisped up in the frying pan. He ate the smoked rind; I got the fish and the bacon. I don’t know why the memory has stayed with me so strongly, but when I think of Grandad, I think of that one moment. Perhaps it's one of the reasons for "yellow fish" remaining at the very top of my list of comfort foods for the past 20 or so years. 

There is not much that you can either say or do when you find out horrible news like the passing of a darling relative. I was still at work and still had a string of calls to make from the office so I did what I always do, and I powered on through.

Thankfully after one more work call the rest of my day was filled with a Skype with Erin and then Lizzy, so I caught up with the girls and didn’t mention anything (tears in the office wouldn’t not have been a good look when I am supposed to be trying to be the boss).

Marmalade cocktails in memory 

I then cancelled birthday drinks that I was supposed to be attending, I called Nick and we went out for some tearful cocktails to bid farewell to my darling old boy. We decided to go to The Post Bar at The Fullerton Hotel. The Fullerton is one of the oldest buildings in Singapore, and before becoming a hotel it was the post office, so I like to think that Grandad would have passed through during his time in town. We drank to his beloved memory with marmalade martinis, and had homemade marmalade (from Nick's mum's Aga) and croissants for breakfast on Friday morning. Rest in peace my darling moustached old man.