I'm just going to read a remarkable email that we've had actually from Patrick Taylor.

Thank you for writing to us Patrick, whose written email is saying,

my dad, John Taylor, had, unlike the current England batting line up,

dug in and battled doggedly to reach 83. He built gradually through to his 50s as a true gentleman,

a pharmacist, sportsman, father of two boys, until unexpected cloud cover descended,

just as he was looking to break free from the shackles and play with a freedom that retirement would bring.

On an ever increasingly sticky wickety faced up and defended against a beamer in the form of leukemia,

the Yorker of muscular dystrophy, the googly of Parkinson's, the reverse swing of diabetes and

laterally, was struck down by the vicious bouncer of dementia. But like fellow Yorkshire and Brian

Closon, never winced, complained or succumbed to the temptation of amateur dramatics,

just accepted the cards had been dealt and squeezed every last drop out of life that he could,

on a single by single basis with an amazing care team acting as runners. On 83,

dad finally faced the inevitable, unplayable delivery and left the field of play.

I use this cricket analogy, says Patrick, because TMS has been and will continue to be

an institution of great importance to generations of our family.

Our Ember is a boy, listening to the ashes in Australia under my bed covers with a torch on

at Cilioclock, until dad finally lost patience and reminded me that it was school in the morning.

My granddad was blind and TMS is my far his favourite form of entertainment. So it proved for dad,

particularly when he was virtually bed bound and it was always great to hear his infamous laugh

as a team dished out its plentiful helpings of wit and repartee. However, most importantly,

you managed to allow me to say goodbye to him properly just before his passing.

Dad was rushed to hospital on Thursday 9th August with another bad chest infection. On Friday,

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