Andy

Over the past 21 years we have had a series of Postmen and a Postwoman. The Postwoman was a lover of fine music and always had Radio Three playing in her van. She could name any piece of classical music and the composer. (For our overseas listeners it’s the BBC Classical channel, or was until the BBC head honchos decided to dumb it down a touch)  One of the chaps has a ZZ Top beard, is totally laid back and listens to Roy Orbison through to the latest garbage produced by strutting youths with a desire for immediate fame. 

Andy joined us about four years ago. He is quiet, personable and has a sense of humour; this may be related to his deeply Cornish roots and the fact that at some stage in his life his nose was remodelled by somebody. Having been rejected by three possible subjects this morning I snagged Andy, he had to stop on his round and kindly gave me the time to photograph him. Christmas hampers work! 

One lady declined my simpering request for her portrait because her hair was a mess; but that was exactly why I approached her, it’s bright blue, the sun was glistening through it. Maybe another time. 

The link to the extra. Pop had been a Telegram Boy at O'Connell St Post Office, Dublin, the scene of the Easter Uprising. He gradually worked his way up into the management levels. 

The extra is our wedding day, 18th June 1971. I‘m standing beside “Pop,” my guiding influence, my paternal grandfather. He was the kindest of men, tolerant yet stern when required. Intelligent, well read and a devout Methodist. Pop would drop his paper if I asked a question, peer over his glasses and answer as fully and objectively as he could to my enquiring mind. He nearly died on Penmaenmawr beach North Wales. I covered 75 yards faster than Usain Bolt and got him restarted again. Sadly he died a few months later. His was the first funeral I attended, I was 24 and by then a Sgt in the Royal Marines. The service and committal affected me so deeply. I was grieving for my best friend, yet suddenly, without the opportunity to hold him and say goodbye, he was gone. The sliding curtains and movement of the conveyor in the Crematorium shocked me. My job involved death, I was not inured to it but I thought myself quite resilient.

From that day I have only attended a few funerals. They have a deep psychological effect on me, that leaves me unassailably sad for days. 

Having known and loved this man I now am in the Grandfather role. I enjoy it beyond measure, I adore our boys and would give them anything. How much would I give to stroll the seawall at Sandymount, Dublin with him one last time, lost in conversation and warmth; everything.