Another good-bye. Today we said goodbye to my brother-in-law Ian (this time that’s completely accurate, my late sister’s husband), who left us in early September, at the far too young age of 63.

He’d been really quite unwell for a while, and I think him being still here up to then is a testament to his strength and to the NHS. He’d been through a lot in the last few years.

This now leaves my nephews without either of their parents at a far too young age: while my old man departed when I was still in my twenties, I was into my fifties before my mom left us. It also means I have an even more diminished family, but obviously we’ll be keeping close ties with our nephews.

I’d known Ian for about 40 years. I was still at school when my sister met him: we had our ups and downs, but since Sarah’s death we’d become closer. Once more I’m going to be very honest in the way I hope people will be about me when I’m gone: Ian could at times be difficult (I’m not, of course), but he was an excellent dad to my nephews and husband to my sister, and a friend, someone I will miss greatly, and as I’ve said before, his sense of humour could be excellent, if on the dark side (the irony there being that he was the one to actually lose hair at one point).

At times while he was ill he’d consider not having the (quite unpleasant) treatment and whether there was any point: as I’d say to him at the time “well, I’d rather you didn’t die just yet”.

Sadly we reached that point: my nephews are parentless, the house we helped my sister and Ian move into will be sold.

We had some laughs: the one I’ve been telling people of for years was when we went away for a weekend and ended up in Ilfracombe. We walked into a pub, and Ian & I approached the bar: there was a sign advertising scrumpy.

Ian: “What’s your scrumpy like, mate?”
Barman: “I wouldn’t give it to my fucking dog mate. I’d stick to the Strongbow”

Rest well, chap. I don’t believe in any afterlife, but you’ll live on in memories and in your sons.

[edit]
Pleasingly, his sense of humour has clearly carried over. Entry music into the service was Staying Alive, exit music Another One Bites the Dust. Well done lads, he’d have loved it.

The post title is the only Chas’n’Dave mention you’ll get here.

We went away. Almost to Margate, at Westgate-on-Sea, our first revisit to Kent since 2011.

I’d been expecting a right Kent of a drive; we left out later than usual, but actually, the traffic gods were smiling upon us, with one very small hold-up near the M25. M6T, M1, M25, A2, M2, A2, A299, A28, 4hrs 3 min, 56mpg.

Our property was just a short hobble from the town centre and station. Last time we were in Kent we used the train a lot, this time we didn’t use it at all.

The town centre, at first sight, was lively on a Saturday late afternoon/early evening, during the week it was quieter. Quite an attractive High Street and obviously fairly affluent given the bars, restaurants, and shops. Notably though, there was an absence of traditional pubs which seemed very odd. There were bars, but not pubs.

We got a bit of shopping, and went for a curry at an Indian restaurant that (in a good way) was like being in one from the 1990s.

So what else did we do? We went to Reculver and looked at the tower, we went to Herne Bay and Deal and wandered down the piers (Herne Bay was closed off last time we were here, and it’s now a fine pier, even with the end of it still some distance out to sea). We went to Hever Castle, Canterbury Cathedral, and went into Margate where we totally failed to get into the Turner Contemporary (they were changing an exhibition), but did get into the Shell Grotto.

Margate itself was a tiny bit rough around the edges, but has a good beach and some great restaurants: there’s clearly gentrification creeping in, but Broadstairs or Deal would be more your thing if you want genteel English seaside. If you’re prepared for a bit of edge, Margate is fine.

There were a few pubs.

The week went fast: before long it was time to pack up and pay another Dart charge. Home to kittehs.