My dad died of cancer(s) fifteen years ago. He spent his final month in bed at home, chatting with us and friends, knowing that he’d soon be gone, bed bound but sharp as a tack.

The day before he died, he climbed nimbly out of bed and did a little jig to show how spry he was.

Charming in its own way, although his lack of garments on his lower body (it made life easier as functions became less controlled) added a certain edginess to the event.