So a mere couple of weeks after going back to Glasgow, following my summer holidays, I'm back in Shetland again. Not entirely by choice, and certainly not in good circumstances.
My lovely granddad, Peter - well, not biologically but certainly in every other way for as long as I remember - had been suffering from hip pains when I left. On Tuesday, less than a week after I'd left, he was in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, having been diagnosed with lung cancer which had spread to his bones. The doctors hoped they could treat it, but it was clear from the outset that this would only be to slow it rather than cure it. However, on Saturday morning my mam phoned me at work to tell me he'd taken a bad turn in the night and passed away. He was 61.
As you can imagine, my heart is utterly broken. He'd been a huge part of my life for as long as I can remember, having married my granny when I was a toddler and the two of them being together until her death in 2001, and even after his eventual remarriage last year. And now I've started this entry yet still don't feel I can say everything I want to.
I've been in Shetland since Friday and the funeral was Saturday, and tomorrow I'll be back to Glasgow and trying to adjust to the fact that I'll never see him again.
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