One of my former quality inspectors died two weeks back, and within our RAF trade group on Facebook, there have been at least one member passing each week, sometimes more.
I have thought of the chemicals and other substances we used, and at time cocktails of drugs meant to protect us, so apparently healthy and hearty well met fellows have met their end sooner than expected.
I don't know.
Two weeks back, a guy I joined up with passed away from heart disease, Hans Peter in Denmark passed from colon cancer, both were the same age as me.
Hardest to bear was the passing of my last Flight Sergeant, Steve. He joined at 17, rose through the ranks and played rugby union.
Very well.
At High School his team went undefeated for four whole years, then joining the RAF he represented the Service, and lead the Combined Services team in a match against the All Blacks. He was the last serviceman to be selected to play for the Barbarians.
After playing, he coached. Coached wherever he was posted to, and being a Rugger Bugger, lived life to the full. And being a fellow Armourer too upped the ante even further.
He was a Father too, and left behind to grown up daughters and his wife.
I was going to go to the funeral in Weston Super Mare, but it would have cost £270 to travel there and back in a day on the train, or as much to stay in hotels.
So I watched online, via a link.It is the modern way.
So, the day was the build up to half twelve when it began, and then the aftermath when it finished just after one.
I was washed out, so sat on the sofa with Scully and watched Bangers and Cash, missing an hour's worth when my eyes grew too heavy and I dozed.
After work, Jools went to the physio in Canterbury to have her shoulder assessed, so she brought KFC back upon her return at eight.
I had raised two or three drams in Steve's memory by then, and then sent down two St. Bernardus to keep them and supper company.
Barrel was indeed a legend, and we'll not see the like of him again.
Comrade, friend, boss.
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