Maxima and I were having a jar with Professor Calculus in the Tintinnabula when my phone went off and, seeing it was my Aunt from Glasgow, I was immediately anxious: she'd never phoned me on my mobile before.
It turned out that a figure who was threaded through my boyhood and who was now known as the oldest altar-boy in Glasgow had died. I'm smiling as I write this, remembering his good humour and his tall tales. He was a beacon in some pretty dark times as the drugs trade moved into much of the area, and many people who could afford to moved out. He had a quickfire wit that never spilled over to sarcasm, and was always seeking to put his talents to God's work in whatever way he could. He was part of the area since the first half of the twentieth century, and the area is something less without him.
Lord, may your good and faithful servant rest in peace.