My beautiful neighbour Ted passed away Thursday.
He would have been 96 this year.
He would tell me stories about his wife Beryl, about her lamingtons and hanging plants, about their life on the farm, about his experiences stationed at Darwin during the war.
He gave me his newspaper every evening after he'd completed the crossword.
I didn't see him so much after I started at the medical centre cause I mostly work afternoon/evenings, and his chat time was usually between 5 and 5.30 when his dinner was cooking. He said he swore he wouldn't let himself go when Beryl died, so he kept to a strict schedule for meals and stuff.
The void was soon filled by the Bluecare ladies who helped him bath every morning, but i would still catch him sometimes on my day off or at the mailbox and/or bin mornings.
The afternoon he died i was contemplating trying to organise a set time we could have morning tea together, around his nap times, which were gradually increasing every year.
He was a lovely, kind man who always pretended to be more deaf then he actually was when I checked in with him about my tendancy to sing rather louder than I should.
Probably I've had rather too many drinks in your honour since Thursday night ... but you're worth it, hey?
(And at least i am not trying to ferment my own liqur with sugar, spit and coconuts)