When I was about eighteen dad ruined a perfectly good meal by announcing I’d be expected to do his eulogy. “You’re the oldest,” he’d argued when I protested strongly, instantly breaking into the sort of full body dampness lovers of not public speaking will recognise. As such I’ve been dreading the passing of my father more than most for 34 years.
The blog posts which probably mean more to us than you. Our day to day stuff which, one day, our kids will look back on and laugh at. Or use in court. Or talk about with their psychiatrists.