Still made two cups of tea this morning by habit. The kitchen is far too quiet without you tapping your spoon against the saucer. Thank you for fifty years of gentleness, my darling Bob. The garden roses are just opening for you.

Lighting a candle for you little brother. God knows we fought like cats when we were lads over bicycle wrenches and fishhooks, but there was never a better man on this earth. Give Mum a kiss from me. Save me a seat by the river.

Grandpa, I found that wooden robin you carved for me in 2004 tucked inside my jewelry box yesterday. I sat on the floor and cried until I was laughing thinking about you yelling at the crows for stealing your tomato seedlings. You taught me...

Left a half pint of bitter on the corner table where Bob used to sit every third Thursday. Sixty years of arguing about cricket, carburetor timing, and why Devon cider beats Somerset every day of the week. Miss you terribly mate. The moors ...

When my late husband Arthur had his stroke in 2011, Robert came over every single Tuesday at 7am to take our rubbish bins down the long gravel drive so I wouldn't have to struggle. He did it for four years straight and never once mentioned ...

Lighting a candle for the master who taught me how to work with my hands and my heart. 'Measure three times, cut once, and forgive the wood when it moves on you.' I still hear your voice every morning when I open the workshop shutters, Bob.