My grandfather was dying. It hadn't come as any great shock. A year prior, he'd got the diagnosis

the family were dreading. Dementia. My great uncle had it too and my grandmother, both dead.

Within the year, physical effects were starting to take their toll. His memory was slipping more often.

He was still at home, but a nurse came every day. At least twice a week, I'd pop in after work to see him.

Some days it was good.

He was the grandfather I remembered, witty and charming, a genuine twinkle in his eyes and

a bit cheeky to anyone and everyone.

He'd tell me stories like he used to about his days as a fisherman in the bay

and the weird assortment of friends he'd collected over the years.

The other days were bad. On the best of the bad, he'd sit

silently, maybe mumbling to himself. On the worst, he'd rant about how poorly he thought Harold Wilson was doing as Prime

Minister, even though the man had been dead for 25 years.

A week before he died, I left work early and drove over to the little cul-de-sac he lived in.

The nurse was just leaving.

Hello?

Hello? You going in to see him?

Yeah, he's on pretty good form today.

Okay, I said, good, good.

The nurse left and I ventured inside.

He was laid back in his usual chair, looking out through the large living room bay window.

Beyond the hills outside was the usual strip of blue, a glimpse of the sea blending into sky.

Hello Grandad, I said.

...