Uncle Ron died this week. Like the clocks he loved he finally ran out of tick.
He was nearly 92.
Auntie Cinders  is bearing up, she has lived in their home for 55 years and I reckon she will stay if she can.
I don't know if she can keep all his clocks ticking and chiming, it is quite a manoeuvre winding them all up each week.
Uncle Ron was a very singular man, with his own teasing sense of humour and determination to do things his way, at his pace.
He was in the desert war, in the army, from which he learnt to love motorbikes; finally they graduated to four wheels.
Every summer they would decide where to go on holiday, and the very morning of departure he would invariably decide to strip down the engine and explore every widget till he was satisfied. Often they left a day late
He played the piano by ear, vamping with his left hand. He liked kids.
He played Scrabble and card games with mother, Cinders and anyone else they could rope in, till the early hours.
He demanded soup with his dinner and custard with his suet pudding or spotted dick. Cinders has arranged for Meals on Wheels to call now, finally she can stop making Bread Pudding.
Ian is their only son, he has most of Ron's eccentricities without the charm.