Or a fair way, at least. My last surviving Uncle died yesterday morning (no, there isn’t a joke coming, although death can be funny). My mothers’ elder brother, a diehard Scot in all but accent, after moving to England with my Grandparents in his early teens, was a boisterous, full-barrelled, well-heeled pensioner, often full of spirits bottled in the Highlands and an altogether different kind of spirit reserved for a life lived with few people prepared to argue, or perhaps, worth listening to. He took few prisoners and suffered fewer fools.
He suffered an aneurysm during a round of golf on Wednesday afternoon, was flown by helicopter to hospital, but never regained consciousness, dying at around 7.30am the following morning. He had told my mother on many occasions that when his time came, he hoped it would be playing golf. He got his wish. And in his beloved Scotland too.
Today was the first time I looked up ‘getting a will’ on the internet.
Strangely, I woke this morning not full of remorse for a man I didn’t know as well as I should, but with a lightness of foot into a light spring morning, amidst a delicate and fleeting April shower that made me think that my Uncle was maybe looking down on me, and me alone, at such an unsociable hour, cheering me with some unusual refreshing warmth for the time of day. He made me smile a long, long time ago. I think that is how I would like to remember him.