Quintin Jardine's blog

Thirty-nine years ago today, my dad died, suddenly in his armchair, leaving my kids and me with good memories that have been with us ever since. He was reading the Glasgow Herald at the time, but I’ve never held it against that newspaper. At least it wasn’t  the Scotsman. (He’d have laughed at that observation, by the way.) He was laughing the last time I saw him, as he showed me to  the door, and so was I; about what I can’t remember, but I’ve always felt good about it.