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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

It's really hard to know what is appropriate to write about on the blog, and what isn't. In the middle of glib tweeness about redecorating bedrooms and links to people swearing in badly drawn cartoons, it's really hard to write something that perhaps means something. I detest those kind of self important bloggers that write about things as if they are the first people to experience their new situation, as if what they have to say is so important it should be written in the sky and broadcast on prime time television for the world to see. I hate those kind of posts more than I hate people who use too many exclamation marks when trying to make a point. That's real hate.

My great-uncle died last night. He was my grandad's brother. I knew him better than I did my grand father, who died when I was very young. My great-uncle was a very important, kind, grumpy, strange man with an absolutely wicked sense of humour whose death will be devestating to a lot of people. He isn't someone I know very well, and I don't really know what to say about any of it. Last month, I didn't mention another death in the family, simply because I didn't know what to say about it either, and even though I've written this post about five times already, I still don't know what to say.

I've searched the internet for information about him, and I've found some links to books on amazon I didn't know he had written, and some information on charity sites I didn't know he'd donated to. His web presence, if that is how you would judge a person, reflects someone dedicated and caring, who really seems to have contributed to the world around him in the time that he was here.

I vividly remember one visit to his house one summer when we were given the rare treat of a moment in his presence - my great-uncle didn't tolerate the presence of children very well, indicating of course what a right thinking man he was. We were sitting in his study with the shutters closed across the windows, while he smoked his heavy pipe and told us a story. I can't remember what the story was about, but I do remember being absolutely terrified, of the dark, oak-walled, book lined study, and of the huge man sitting in the corner, gleefully trying to frighten the life out of us. On another visit, I remember he chased us out of his fruit garden waving his walking stick and throwing apples at us. And on another, I remember him showing us around his beautiful fruit garden, making us sit very quietly and showing us the hovering dragon flies around the edge of the pond. Really, he's a story book uncle, an Enid Blyton version of proper grown ups who shout and fascinate and linger in the memory. It's very odd to think that I will never see him again.

This entry was posted on 24 March 2004 at 2:07 pm. 0 comments

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