Im not sure how often it really was, when we'd stay over at Grandma and Grandad's, I'm not even sure if it was weekends or during the summer holidays, but it was regular enough to be etched into my psyche as a defining routine of my childhood. Going over to the bungalow, having dinner with the cats placemats, arguing over who got the big bed and who had the folding one, and staring at the red digits of the alarm clock in the back bedroom till I fell asleep.

Then, what felt like moments later, in bright morning, Grandad came in and woke us up for breakfast (toast, shredded wheat or weetabix) for a busy morning of delivering the papers. I couldn't imagine what time they got up because Grandma seemed to always have sorted out the leaflets before we'd finished eating and getting dressed. Then into the car and across to the other side of Bulko for delivering the papers.

Grandma definitely put the most through letterboxes, handing us just the right amount for each cluster of houses divvied up between us, I'd hastily run off with my stack to try and get them posted as fast as possible, (occasionally dropping some, and hoping I put the right leaflets back in each), and when returning to the car, Grandad always seemed to be the last one back; "Oh Charlie, what kept you?" and surprise surprise, he'd usually been chatting away with someone on the doorstep. Grandad was a such a kind, caring man, who always had time for people, and unsurprisingly seemed to be or else make friends with nearly everyone he met.

I never saw him worry about anything, to my eyes he was perfect complement to Grandma's loving concerns. Where Grandma encouraged to eat (the often over-boiled) vegetables, Grandad threatened to steal them off the plate if you didn't eat them fast enough.

The only time I saw the briefest of anxiety in his eyes was years later at a family dinner with me sat one side of him and Stuart the other, and the time for our food stealing revenge had come