Yesterday when selecting photos of the boys for the blog, I came across this splendid picture of Uncle Jonny. It was taken many years ago in Brighton on one of his many trips there when he had been persuaded to sit on a mosaic tump by the promenade. What better way to brighten up this dreary Friday morning, when the drizzle makes my long ears frizzle, than to ponder a while on him and his times. Brighton was one of his favourite resorts: coffee and cake at The Meeting Place or more latterly Buckets and Spades, his hopeful cheery face peering up over the table top in expectation – so many photos show him like this. The collective memory in winter months is of drinking coffee in icy winds near the Lanes, sitting outside cafes, huddling near the door for some residual warmth, Jonny at their feet. Summer in Brighton for him meant the annual Pride celebrations, which he always enjoyed as he was continuously petted by participants and tourists alike as he trotted decorously along, providing many a photo opportunity. He was an old hand at all that. Brighton also meant meeting up with Jason, that master of ink, or staying at the late-lamented Hilton West Pier, whose marble foyer particularly suited his trotty feet. The rolling sea on the noisy pebbles, Alice Cooper at the Brighton Centre, the mist over the Marina, the underside of the ruined West pier with pigeons perching and peeping above – not to mention the filming of James Bond on the walkway of the pier itself – Jonny always seemed to be pulling them gently but firmly towards the things he knew would be fun or funny. Plodding along, contentedly, never a moment’s trouble; the most equable of companions. When the time comes, as I suppose I now realise it will one day, will those who lived with and loved me count my days as such a blessing? I pray that it is so. We love you Jonny; we always will.