Grandad His hands, his smile, the naughty twinkle in his eye. His pipe, his penknife, his amazing ability to make you anything you wanted, which always turned out better than you ever imagined. "Bonjourno". "What have you got to tell me Sal?" Christmas . . . he was Christmas to me. Now I have children of my own it's all coming back, although I don't wake the house on Christmas morning with the record player on LOUD, playing Tijuana Brass, The Christmas Album . . . I'd like to though. Cribbage, Rummy, Monopoly, slipping a couple of pink ones under the corner of the board. Yes I did see that! How I never really saw him smoke his pipe, just light it, . . . and that puff, puff, puff sound. His seemingly never ending supply of checked shirts and corduroy trousers. How he made me feel safe and loved. How he asked me lots of questions and really listened to the whole answer. I wish I had been older so that I could have asked him more questions back. He helped me to love the trumpet and to always want a house full of music. "Let's go for a walk". I would learn at least fifty new things on a gentle stroll and we'd make a couple of whistles along the way. His hair that seemed to grow outwards until he looked like a Great Horned Owl and how he'd let me 'have a go" at it. His home-made whimberry picking tool and then us all screaming with laughter as we tried to blow off the bits in the workshop. His amazing 'part a fly's hair' catapult skills. . . . . . . but mainly those hands. He was my Grandad, my teacher and my friend and I miss him every day.