My grandfather, Gordon 'Roy' Shearing, died today. It's weird to type those words, even when you know they're coming. He was my last surviving grandparent and at the age of 87, with rapidly failing health, it was expected - though I remember the words Joss Whedon used in one of the finest hours on television on the subject, that death is ALWAYS sudden too.


He lived a life less ordinary, living in places as different as Leeds, The Bahamas and Southamption, before spending most of of the latter half of his life in Coventry. His son - my mum's brother, David Shearing - was a respected leader writer for several UK papers and certainly one of the reasons I segued into that business myself.

He was a complex person, but he was also a character - as delightful, benevolent and flawed as anyone you'd care to meet. And it's hard for me to imagine no longer picking up the phone to one of his frequent phone calls, though I think he'll already be wondering if he can get call-coverage up there.

Sleep well, you've earned it.