So. I was in the middle of writing a blog post about my Grandad's umbrella. My dad's dad died a few years ago while I was in Morocco. He was a great old duffer and a nice bloke, if a little straightjacketed by his Victorian sensibilities.
I tidied my room just after New Year and somehow misplaced my umbrella. So I grabbed the one my dad's mum (aka Gran) gave me after he died. She is from a generation that can't abide things not being used. It's a good umbrella. Sturdy. Strong. Neat. Keeps the rain off. All the important stuff.
It struck me as I was travelling to a meeting near St Pauls that the umbrella had done this trip before. He used to work around there, and I let my mind wander for a while, imagining the last time it was there and what Grandad would have been doing. It was a nice daydream. I was genuinely fond of my Grandfather.
Same week, we found out that my Mum's Mum (aka The Other Gran. Keep up.) had died. I had to use the umbrella to brave the almost biblical quantities of rain in west London to get over to her flat and help mum out. It's sad but she had a good innings and seems to have gone in her sleep. There are worse ways.
No point to this, I guess. Other than "Huh".
(I should point out I was not close to my Mum's mum, but am obviously doing my best to be there for my mum and sister.)