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I don't even know where to start with this one. The most difficult blog post I've ever had to write. My father passed away two weeks ago. I didn't get there in time to hold his hand as he went. I was an hour too late. He was still warm when I got to the hospital and stroked his hair and his cheek; I even shook his shoulders and asked him to wake up. But he didn't. His heart had stopped, worn out by giving away so much love I suspect.

I've barely cried since he went, although the tears are there. There's not much time or opportunity to feel sad when there's a seven-month old who needs (and deserves, it goes without saying) all your time and affection. At the funeral I needed to be strong for Mum, although a tear escaped when hubby read out a message from one of my cousins in Canada and his voice broke at the end. I think I cried most when I went to see Dad at the chapel of rest. I had ummed and ahhed about going but in the end I was so glad I did. It literally felt like a big weight had been lifted from my shoulders and I felt like I had said a proper goodbye; strange to say, I almost felt happy afterwards.

On reflection, one of the things that makes me most sad is that Arthur will never know his Grampy. The man who loved to show everyone a card trick or two, who loved his football, loved his allotment - all things that a small boy would enjoy doing with their Grampy, but this my small boy will miss out on that. Lucky that his Daddy enjoys at least the last two of those and, who knows, perhaps will one day perform the old 'ten pence piece behind the ear' trick. Thank goodness, then, that Dad got to meet Arthur. People have told me how unbelievably chuffed he was to have a grandson, something he thought would never happen since I had never been a big fan of children and, hence, never wanted one (how glad I am that I changed my mind).

Now that I have written this post I feel like I can get on with blogging as I used to, although maybe not straight away. I don't think Dad would mind.