Hey,

My Grandpa was a bookseller, specialising in British topographies and local interest.

Albert John Coombes — but never actually Albert, always John. AJC. He had a pretty difficult upbringing, not much money and a lot of hard graft. And then he built a family. He raised my mum to be the creative, kind, and curious person she is and then, before long, there I was. Here I am. Here he’s not.

He died on Sunday 12th. He’d been unwell for a while and he’d kind of been caught by aging. His body couldn’t do what it used to, which had been a lot. I remember him telling me how much he resented growing old, once. He hated that his body couldn’t do what it used to.

Very understandably — this was a guy who cycled over a hundred miles across Sussex, Surrey, and Berkshire in a day in his youth. Who devotedly planned, organised, and sold collections of books (my word, his bookshelves...). Who had driven around Europe on a motorbike with my Grandma in the sidecar, getting stopped at the Czech border by armed guards who’d seen him taking photos of the views. Who tailed a police car for dozens of miles through Germany, having misunderstood their instructions and thought they’d told him to follow them to reach their destination. Who chipped away at the crossword every day with Grandma. Who was my Grandpa.

The guy with the cheekiest grin I’ve ever seen and a devilish sense of humour.

He was the grandparent who I felt had always treated me most like a grown up, for the longest time. He trusted me and my intelligence and judgement. He listened to me and learned things. He showed me a lot and entertained me endlessly — and he always seemed to think he wasn’t doing any of it, that I’d be bored or unimpressed.

I was never bored, Grandpa. I’m going to miss you a lot and I hope that, wherever you are now, you took a 100 mile cycle ride to get there and felt like yourself again.

Slow down guide

Need a little help moving slower?

Ease your way out of Friday afternoon with this newsletter, a nice cup of something, and a little background music. Steal my setup if you aren't sure where to start.

After I press send, I’m not sure what I’ll be drinking. I’ve written this on Monday 13th and we’ve changed to an early flight home on Wednesday 15th. I’ll be at my parents’ house, which feels like exactly the right place at the right time.

Whatever’s in my cup and whatever’s in yours, I think it would be nice if we listened to Rocky Votolato’s Makers. It’s another one from the vault and it, very pleasingly, popped up on a Spotify radio the day after Grandpa died. It’s a slightly darker take on death, I suppose, but it’s comforting and beautiful to me.

We both agreed
The Final Moment!
The sweetest remedy to ever be delivered!
Heaven or heavenless we're all headed for the same sweet darkness

I don’t know where he is now—whether it's dark or light or blank as time in utero—but I reckon it’s as sweet as Rocky suggests.

Bring it on, Grandpa. I’ll see you there when I see you there.

Take it easy,