He wanted to be called Grumpy Grampy. I couldn’t manage that.

My grandfather.  Gobbi.

He is still such a present figure in my life.  Despite being dead for ten years now.  It would have been his 87th birthday tomorrow; although I feel his loss, even now desperately painfully, I can feel him here with me.  All the time.

He was handsome and kind.  He loved his four children and many grandchildren.  And Granny.  They adored each other.  Some of my earliest memories are them howling with laughter over their morning cup of tea in bed.  It was always very early!  I had a room of my own in their house I stayed there so much.  We lived next door.

He and Granny supported my mother when she got pregnant at 19.  He was the one who took her shopping and bought her the things she needed for a baby, like a pram.  Mummy was still at uni and completely broke.  And he remained a pivotal person in my life forever after I was born.

He affectionately called my father, The Ginger Tom.  Dad had a mad riot of red curls and he rode a motorcycle.  Gobbi would take him to the pub when he went to stay with them at Manor House and buy him a pint (or more).  He could have behaved very differently but… that wasn’t Gobbi’s way.  He accepted Dad and supported them both.  He was the best grandfather in the whole world.  I loved him, deeply.

He was frightening.  Really tough and stern.  But he would give anyone who needed it the shirt off his back.  He literally gave everything he ever had away over the course of his life.

He was intimidatingly clever.  He could speak in Latin.  He was good at everything.  He shot for GB in the commonwealth games.  He could run.  He canoed.

We still say to each other when we are busy,

"I’m going to walk the dogs.  Go for a run.  Mark some targets.  Go for a paddle."  It was a litany, we’d heard it so many times.

He was always busy.

Dogs loved him.  His own.  But also other people’s.  He was a magnet.

He also smoked too much and drank too much.  Loved tawdry songs and had an extensive repertoire of really revolting sayings.

But he always had time for me.  He introduced me to horses through his old ex racehorse. He spent hours reading to me and telling me stories.  He would take me on all his chores and drives (always in a loop - never going home the same way).

When I was a single mother myself at 24 (Apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree 🌳) he would arrive with supplies of corned beef and tinned pies and trifles - enough to feed an army - and I would hide them away in the larder.  Could not stand them!

He would invite us around for supper at least twice a week when he thought I was struggling.

He was not a saint but he was a very good man.  He inspired such love in his students and friends and I know how lucky I am that he was mine.

He would laugh that there’s such a presence of him in my book.  But I hope he’d be proud and happy to know what a steadfast, important person he was to me.  He’d be glad that I’ve finally managed to achieve something too.  He’d always worried about my hopeless career prospects, 'what does an English and classical literature degree set you up for, darling?' and said I couldn’t pat ponies (and shovel shit) for the rest of my life.

I think he’d be satisfied to know I’ve landed two mega book deals. Exceeded expectations there.

I only ever wanted to make him proud.  I would have walked through fire for him.  I know that he would have done it for me too, although he’d have probably found a clever way around…