I write this with a glass in my hand – my father would have liked that – but a tall glass full of red, voluptuous wine – not a short one with a golden Irish or Scottish spirit in it. That’s if Janine would let him have it! Dad would have held the glass in his chubby, stumpy fingers – given it a good old sniff and then no doubt downed it in one and poured himself another! My dad was born Barry Robert Morley on the 28th October 1945 – just after the war ended and he hated bananas! He was the only son of Bob and Nora Morley and lived out the majority of his formative years in Rushden in Northamptonshire. His childhood was good, filled with lots of fishing with his dad, a rather annoying dog called Pug, an extremely overprotective mother and illicit smoking of woodbines when he was very young. He was an intelligent young man and could quite easily have gone to the grammar school, but decided not to in the end. He decided instead to join the police force and after marrying my mother went off to Rydon to do his basic training. He graduated as a constable and was in the constabulary for a number of years. He then went on to working for Ford Motor Company in Daventry as a security guard, where he worked for 32 years. Dad, even in those days, had a strict daily routine consisting of making his pack up – drinking copious cups of coffee, smoking even more fags and choosing which huge voluminous book he would take to work to read on whichever shift he was working – 6 till 2, 2 till 10 or 10 till 6. Working shifts was great for me, because as his daughter I saw lots of him and when I was in the junior and senior school came home for lunch, always greeted by a full cooked dinner and, in the summer time either Emmerdale – with Seth – so you know how long ago that was – or cricket on the telly and Ian Botham was playing then! Dad was a very keen fisherman and known to very few, quite a talented golfer. Dad could turn his hand to virtually anything – we would even have Swingball tournaments in the garden – and he generally won! Having said all of this, dad’s greatest love was cooking and drinking. He had his own little micro-brewery going on in the airing cupboard – I grew up thinking that towels always smelt of yeast naturally. It always seemed to be incredibly cloudy stuff, but he loved it all the same. He was also the first man in England ever to cook home made curries- and these were magnificent. He loved experimenting with spices and textures and would shove a spoon of some hot, lumpy liquid in front of you often – for a tasting to see what you thought. I absolutely adored his version of Bombay potatoes and even got him to cook us a curry the first time we came out here – in about 42 degrees weather. My father, and indeed my husband to think about it, are famous for their sneezing fits when anything spicy would come along and I have to say, could both have done with John Mcenroe sweatbands to catch the sweat drips from their forehead when eating anything remotely spicier than a vindaloo or madras, I would regularly empty the freezer of dad’s curries – much to his annoyance after a good night out clubbing with friends during my teenage years. Dad met and fell in love with Janine years ago and soon started initiating her in his global master plan to retire and move to somewhere hot, where he could walk around in next to nothing, drink and be merry. I don’t think she needed much persuading! They moved out here 6 years ago – initially to Torreveca, where they rented a place and then eventually to their beloved mountain – or Grandad’s mountain – as my son Pierce proudly calls it. They lived the life of riley out here – two peas in a pod, like a pair of slippers, bangers and mash, gin and tonic –spring to mind. Janine without a doubt loved and devoted herself completely to my dad and my dad, in his own way, loved and worshipped her. She put up with his grumpiness – he hated the beach and especially sand – but he took her there all the same – no doubt whinging all the way. He hated soaps on telly – but watched them all the same. He hated England – cos it was so cold! – and so she would go on her own to visit her beloved daughter Toni and granddaughter Grace. All in all – life was good and they bimbled along together happily. My dad died a happy man. He had three beautiful grandchildren – Pierce, Darcy and Grace – all of whom got to see him this summer. Pierce even managed to get the grumpy old git into the sea – first time in 3 years! Wasn’t up for the body boarding, but happy to oblige in other ways – especially with the cockling. He had a happy, loving marriage with his soul mate and he no doubt had the remote control, a fag and a glass of Soberano in his hand when he died – work that one out!. He will be sorely missed, but he died on the same day as one man he would have had an affinity with – Keith Floyd and the Swayze meister - Patrick – and, without a doubt – he did have the Time of his life!.