As a baby, birthweight three pounds. Swaddled in cotton wool, wrapped in tinfoil tucked up by the steaming kettle his mother bringing both twins to ruddy health.
In the Coventry bombing, a taxi driver sped Mother and sons out of town, to sleep among trees. They returned next morning, found their father weeping by the flattened house.
That time he nearly didn’t come back the anaesthetic would not release him and his twin collapsed on the Parade Ground could not be roused.
Fighting back from the unfathomable stroke that took his right side and so his running his special joy yet also gave him his art back
The final summer, pneumonias repeated pulmonary attacks when he saw new dawns after doctors had given him up. Suddenly to be gone, after an evening laughing with my little boys. Grandsons who barely remember him now.