My paternal grandfather, were he alive, would be your father's contemporary. He fought with the Royal Navy, principally in the far East and the English Channel. After the war, he spent 20 years working as a miner before finishing his career as a foreman at a power station.

When I was a boy, "what did you do in the war, Grandad?" would generally only elicit the tales of him and his friend Frank who got into trouble for drinking, carousing and fighting whilst on shore leave. He would much rather hold forth on the state of the nation (he was a resolute republican, active in local politics and community-enriching things like scouting and the Royal British Legion) or mining, or the ins and outs of electricity generation. He was an engaging and charismatic speaker, as comfortable speaking to a crowd as to an individual.

But once he hit 75ish, all that fell away. His world contracted sharply, and the only topics of conversation on which I could engage him were the war and his health. This became worse when my grandmother died just a few weeks after my father - a tornado of grief (my father and grandfather were close, and my father died unexpectedly) from which he never recovered. His last few years were spent dominating and victimising my mother, and rambling about what minor ailments he'd acquired this week. There was no joy in his company for us, and I doubt there was much for him.

I wasn't pleased when he died, but there was relief. Not least because my mother, a woman who loves life, could actually start to live hers.